


The Dead Life

by nomadicFool



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Implied Child Abuse, Implied pedophilia, M/M, Multi, Music, Suicidal Ideation, does this count as Slow Burn?, hippie, i forgot to add warnings but those are probably important when there's a lot of... heavy elements, wow yeah lets see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2020-01-04 11:38:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 145,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18342932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomadicFool/pseuds/nomadicFool
Summary: "Are you going on tour this summer, too?""Hell yeah. It's the last one.""Woah, like, ever?""Yeah, man. Last chance, then it's all over."It's like that, for a while. An out of tune routine of waking up in corners and scrubbing his mouth with his toothpaste-slathered finger, washing his armpits with wads of paper towels and hand soap. Plucking the strings of his guitar until his fingers bleed and his case is covered in a layer of cash. Spending it all on drugs and alcohol. Rinse and repeat.They crawl onto the deflated air mattress and underneath his sleeping bag that smells like cigarettes. She buries her face in his neck, and he doesn't push her away. "I just want to be loved," she whispers. He whispers back to be quiet and go to sleep, to not be so naive. That love is a lie weak people believe in to make themselves feel better.





	1. Touch of Grey

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on my personal experiences, things I've witnessed, stories I've heard. Each chapter will have a song attached to it. I encourage you to at least scan the lyrics, and require you listen to it as you read! I'll tag the various relationships and warnings as they come up. Feedback is always appreciated (I especially want to know what you think of the music)! Warning: this story does deal with a lot of dark concepts (suicide, rape, drug abuse etc.)

_[It must be getting early, clocks are running late](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1uby6jFCDjE) _

_Paint-by-number morning sky looks so phony_

_Dawn is breaking everywhere, light a candle, curse the glare_

_Draw the curtains, I don't care 'cause it's alright_

_I will get by, I will get by, I will get by I will survive_

_I see you've got your list out, say your piece and get out_

_Guess I get the gist of it, but it's alright_

_Sorry that you feel that way, the only thing there is to say_

_Every silver lining's got a touch of grey_

_I will get by, I will get by, I will get by I will survive_

 

_It's a lesson to me The Ables and the Bakers and the C's_

_The ABC's we all must face, try to keep a little grace_

_It's a lesson to me The Deltas and the East and the Freeze_

_The ABC's we all think of and try to wean a little love_

_I know the rent is in arrears, the dog has not been fed in years_

_It's even worse than it appears, but it's alright_

_Cow is giving kerosene, kid can't read at seventeen_

_The words he knows are all obscene, but it's alright_

_I will get by, I will get by, I will get by I will survive_

 

_The shoe is on the hand it fits, there's really nothing much to it_

_Whistle through your teeth and spit 'cause it's alright_

_Oh well, a touch of grey kinda suits you anyway_

_And that was all I had to say and it's alright_

_I will get by, I will get by, I will get by I will survive_

_We will get by, we will get by, we will get by_

_We will survive, we will get by_

 

 

     Stoically, softly, quickly, Dave closes the front door behind him, shutting away the messy apartment and the stale stench of weed. His ears prick to catch any sound of footsteps, of a smooth, deep voice, Doritos crunching underfoot. He periodically looks over his shoulder to catch a looming figure with a blank face before it can drag him back into that suffocating house. No one is witness to his escape, except the cockroach skeletons in the corners, and the black globe on the ceiling that sees everything but never interferes.

      A waft of cold air blows into his face as he opens the stairwell door. The loud slam startles him, and the guitar case slips from his hands. He cringes deeper into his hoodie with every thump. It hits the bottom in finality, and he waits, every muscle tense. Only the sound of the whistling breeze rising from the exit fills the small space. Dave takes a deep breath, stuffs the strap of his sleeping bag between his teeth, scoops up his guitar, and bolts into the chilled night air.

      Outside, the sounds of the city are full of potential and promise. His thin backpack pads against his back as he stares up into the sky, giddy with newfound freedom. The eyes of Spirit above him wink, encouraging him to holler and run across benches and laugh in the faces of those that look at him funny. He dances through the streets of his town, peppered with suburban neighborhoods, trimmed with minivans sporting Republican politicians, trailer parks flying the confederate flag, and the shells of shopping malls spray painted with dicks and swastikas. Familiar places, but they hold no memories. Most of his childhood was spent trapped inside his bedroom, or downtown causing mayhem. The dichotomy between the two is startling; one, a dark hole that swallows everything and shoots it back out in violence and fear, and the other, an open landscape of life and possibility, warmth and trust and fun.

      A few streets away, he sits on a bench to take a deep breath. Throat burning from the December air, he rubs his hands along the holes in the jeans where the cold seeps into his pores and tries to clear his mind. It shouldn't be this cold in the sunshine state, even at night. And if it is, he should at least get the pleasure of seeing his breath in the air like a dragon. Not even a small amount of childhood pleasure is allowed tonight. It's the same bench he always sits on, he realizes, when he attempts to escape. To make it official that this is the last time, he scoots to the other end of it. As he lets the excitement and anxiety burn away in his chest, he feels a little bitter; it's going to be shit from here on out, guaranteed. Born into shit, live in shit, die in shit. It must be nice, to grow up in a loving home, with a heater and dinner always on the table, maybe even a slobbery dog to cuddle up with at night. But, as always, one must be grateful for what he has. Like his wallet, stuffed safely in his front pocket with five dollars in cash and his ID. Sleeping bag, neatly rolled up in his lap, an oven even in the negatives. His music book and drawing journal are stacked back to back in his bag; check and check. And his most prized possession of them all - his guitar. Just don't ask him how he got it. Along with his hobbies - the only reason he's still kicking it on this bitch of a planet - is a few pairs of boxers, sweaters and tie dye t-shirts. The shoes he stole from Goodwill have a few holes, but at least they're intact. Mostly. He secures his sleeping bag to hang from the bottom of his backpack, takes another deep breath, and continues down the sidewalk, letting the night fill his lungs with optimism.

      The smell of greasy food and sporadic laughter greet him as he rounds the corner of an old building and warm light envelopes him. Drunk, yelling and laughing tourists hang onto each other in groups, bar hopping. A pair of barefoot kids sit on a blanket on a corner with various homemade crafts and a sign with a price. Strings of lights tangle in trees and twist around railings, dangle from windows and line doorways - the Christmas Nights of Lights, a sight people from all over the world come to see. They flock here like birds, every winter, just for the relief of a t-shirt on Christmas morning.

      Finally, he's home.

      There are alleys and benches and plenty of bathrooms that he can crawl to when he's exhausted enough, but as a newly freed man, he can't pass up the opportunity of meeting people and getting into trouble. While snooping around an ice cream shop for free samples, his head twists on its own accord towards the familiar sound of hollow, rhythmic thumping. He follows the beats, ears guiding the way on a track of music notes, until he can feel it in the soles of his feet, and it crawls up his legs into his chest and head. He stands in front of a stone arch covered in vines entering into a courtyard, where tables are pushed into corners for groups of people to sit, pass joints, complain about their lives, and marvel at the universe. Laughter, swearing and shouting are blurred by drums. Deep ones and light ones, fast rhythms and meandering rhythms, all the little melodies of the soul coming together into one unified song. Around the drum circle, people dance in whatever manner the universe compels them to; shuffles and head bobs, flailing limbs, bare feet and stocked feet and feet with one shoe on and one off. Like a tribe in the jungle, framed beneath the ugly light of a streetlamp and painting the plain cement walls with smoke and euphony. A girl with faded, greasy blue hair sways gently, her hands wafting into the air like vapor. Her head lolls, and the layers of long skirts over pants and tank tops over t-shirts shuffle and twist around her ankles. She turns in a slow circle, eyes closed, a carefree grin stretched across her face. Her mouth always seems too wide, in contrast with her small features, and yet it always entices people to smile back.

      After setting down his belongings in a shadowy corner, Dave slinks over and wraps his arms around her waist. Without missing a beat, she moves in sync with his sways, reaching back to shuffle his hair. He twirls her in a circle and she throws her head back to laugh, then cups the back of his neck in her hands as she faces him. Her blank, milky eyes jiggle slightly underneath her thick, glittering gold mascara, and Dave's smile wavers. She's attractive, he supposes, in a quirky, raw kind of way - much better than the girls that cake their face with layers of makeup, always getting a fresh set of fake nails every month - but he can't find a stir of attraction to her. The seemingly endless gap between them pushes him away, but he pulls her close to him and puts his lips to her ear. "I did it, Dragonfly."

      "And what is it that you did, cool kid?" He pulls away from her mangled voice and twirls her again until her back is against him.

      "I'm out of my dad's place like a fruity in June, wavin' my flag around, all dressed in rainbows and tight mesh. My nips are rock solid and I am now their bitch, following them into the cold night in search of somewhere to crash. I followed 'em straight out of that fucking prison of a crib, no lookin' back, and they hath led me to thee." She spins him this time, and just as he starts to fall backwards, she catches him in a smooth dip. "Think your sister would be alright with me sleeping on her couch?" With their fingers intertwined, Dragonfly stands on her toes to nibble on his earlobe before answering.

      "I'm supposed to be 'getting my shit together,' Dave. If she saw me hanging out with bums, she'd definitely kick me out. Sorry, sweetie." She presses her alcohol-drenched lips to his, but he pulls away and glares down at her, stilling. Breaking away from him, she continues to dance.

      "You can't sneak me into your room? You're an adult, she's not your overlord," he yells over the music.

      "If she caught you, we'd both be homeless. Come on, just hang out, worry about it later." She grabs his fingers and pulls on them playfully, wiggling her shoulders. He grits his teeth, wanting to argue. One of the only reasons he's keeping her around is for backup in a situation such as this. "Seriously, come on. How many times have you run away now?"

      "I'm not _running away_ -"

      "You're going to freeze your seeing eye nips off in some puddle on St. George street, and be right back in your warm, comfy, familiar bed by this weekend. Right after your nightly breakdown. Just enjoy the vibes, man!" She whips out a joint from her purse and waves it in front of his face tauntingly. Fuck it, he decides, and snatches it from her. Benches are there for sleeping, anyways.

      It's like that, for a while. An out of tune routine of waking up in corners and scrubbing his mouth with his toothpaste-slathered finger, washing his armpits with wads of paper towels and hand soap. Plucking the strings of his guitar until his fingers bleed and his case is covered in a layer of cash. Spending it all on drugs and alcohol. Rinse and repeat. The aforementioned nightly breakdowns are hindered by blacking out, or banging the back of his head against the wall to keep the tears from spilling over, desperate attempts to keep himself from falling apart. Sometimes he's lucky and finds a dusty couch to plaster himself to, but it never lasts very long. Girlfriends and mothers don't appreciate random, smelly guys in their living room. As much as Dave loves a good party, some people take it too far, and it's better to be shivering on the street alone than surrounded by loud strangers in a warm house. Mood swings don't help him, either, and have been the cause for fights and broken friendships, broken noses, broken furniture. It builds up, and after back-to-back three week benders that scramble your cognitive abilities, there's only one way he knows how to express himself. The only form of expression that he was ever taught. He always wondered why no one sleeps on the beach, somewhere quiet and uniquely dark, lulled to sleep by the gently rolling waves, the naked stars above. After waking up with gnat bites all over him, sand grinding between his teeth for days later, he makes a note in his mental experience journal.

      As he ambles down the familiar street, which he has deemed his living room, shining brilliantly against the night, eyes drooping with exhaustion, he mentally points out all of the places where he had previously slept. Last time, it was slumped in the corner of the Sahara, the local hippie cafe, but there are too many people there now. That one stone bench, but it's dripping with a spilled soda. Under that awning, but the shop has new hours and is open much later. Groups of college students stumble from one ice cream shop to the next, acoustic guitars fill all of the empty spaces. He comes across a narrow alley, nestled between a bakery and a boutique, where the smell of bread tickles his nose. The blanket of darkness that covers it simultaneously makes him feel safe and uneasy. Blindly, he shuffles in, and hits something with his foot. It grumbles, and Dave gently nudges it again, this time earning a muffled threat. He turns away in disappointment.

      This is fine. There are plenty of alleys and walkways and corners to curl up in. Everything is fine. He can survive on the street. He's done it most of his life, he's been doing it for weeks in a row now. He'll be fine. Behind a restaurant, there's an empty stage with butterfly-shaped string lights hanging from the roof. Only a few people are scattered about the picnic tables, and it's far enough removed from the suffocating Nights of Lights that it's dimly lit. To the side of the stage is a small hut where they sell popcorn and sodas, and between it and the tall wooden fence is a small space, just big enough for a person. No one notices him, cocooned inside his sleeping bag with his lumpy backpack under his head, stuffing fabric in his mouth to muffle his unmanly sobbing.

      It's tempting to go back to his dad's place. Somewhere familiar and predictable, a bedroom all for himself. His turntables and desktop, a bed, a place to keep his belongings. It's exhausting carrying an entire home on your back, light as it may be. Better than being dragged out of bed by the hair and having the illusion of privacy when he can see the cameras glinting from their hiding places, isn't it? Better than mind games and surprise attacks and insults coming from an unfeeling face. It wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't coming from someone he looked up to, from the person who raised him.

      To forget the cyclical thoughts and feelings, Dave plops onto a stool on the deck of the Sahara. It's early in the morning, but tourists in store-bought tie dyes and cheesy peace signs fill the atmosphere with chatter and Grateful Dead music. A waiter spots him, his bushy eyebrowed glare deepening impossibly, and he walks in the other direction. He slouches, shuffling his feet and tilting his head towards the ground like his very being is heavy and exhausted. Dave waits, splashing his finger in a small ring of water on the table. Karkat eventually comes back, setting a glass of beer in front of him. For some reason he doesn't like to think about, the guy's chubby cheeks marred with an ever-present frown draws Dave's gaze to linger. He doesn't even notice the drink until Karkat says, "It's from that asshole over there," he points to a kid with a goofy grin, waving wildly. "What do you want?" As Dave examines the guy with his familiar dorky glasses and buck teeth, surrounded by other familiar people, the waiter snaps his fingers in his face. "Hello, Dave? Anybody in there or are you brain dead again?" Dave knocks his hand away.

      "Fuck off, man, I don't know, just... give me some fuckin' chicken tenders or somethin'." And just like that, Dave remembers why he avoids the guy.

      "You gonna actually pay this time?" Dave flips him off and gives him a flowery, dramatic affirmation. To his horror, when the grouchy guy leaves, the ray of fucking sunshine is coming towards him. Dave fidgets uncomfortably but forces a loose smile.

      "Yo, John, long time no see. What's up, man?" He holds out his hand and John claps it, pulling back with a practiced snap. Then he darts around the table and gives Dave a hug, ruffling his hair playfully. Although his face cleanly shaved, there's a patch he must have missed on his chin that scratches Dave's cheek. It takes all of his willpower to not shove John away. Instead, he pats his back awkwardly, leaning away a bit until he finally lets go, rubbing irritably at his cheek. 

      "Oh, man, it's so good to see you! I can't believe you're still wearing those sunglasses I gave you, you're such a sentimental sap. What have you been doing these last few years? You just disappeared off the face of the planet after everything happening. Where'd you go?" Dave rubs the back of his head awkwardly and stutters a bit. He's thankfully saved by a basket of greasy chicken strips set in front of him, fries overflowing from the red plastic basket.

      "Oh, hey, do you know Karkat? Karkat, this is my old pal John, John this is Karkat. He hates me." John flings his hand out with an excited greeting, but Karkat only glares at the offering and back to Dave.

      "Stop avoiding conversations that make you uncomfortable, fuckwad." Karkat turns and stomps away, taking with him Dave's escape plan. John, cheerful as ever, laughs and clamps a hand onto Dave's shoulder.

      "That guy sounds fun! So, really, Dave... tell me what's been goin' on." He still smiles, but it's calm and expectant. Despite the chill in the air, Dave's face begins to heat up. Idly, he smears some fries in ketchup and paints the table with it.

      "Um, yeah, you know, I've just been hangin' around."

      "You still livin' with your dad?"

      "Nah, got out of there a bit ago. What about you?"

      "I've actually been going to school in Seattle. I'm just in town to visit my dad over winter break." He laughs and blushes a bit as Dave congratulates him. Genuinely, it's nice to hear that he hadn't destroyed the family's lives. They talk about school a little bit, then Dave asks about his sister, Jade. Though older and undeniably smarter, she never intended to go to college. It's one of the reasons Dave had been into her. John grins wryly. "You ruined her, bro! After we all went on tour, she decided to hitchhike across the country. Haven't heard from her in a few months, but she can take care of herself. Are you going on tour this summer, too?"

      "Hell yeah. It's the last one." John gasps.

      "Woah, like, ever?"

      "Yeah, man. Last chance, then it's all over." He doesn't mention that the band has had several 'last tours ever.' The _last_ last tour ever was when Jerry died, and John Mayer replaced him to create Dead and Company with the remaining band members. The Dead, ironically, will likely never truly die.

      "Wow, I should really go then, shouldn't I? Could I go with you? Oh, and Jade, too! That'd be so fun, wouldn't it?" Before Dave can answer, the reprieve of another guy approaches. Hopefully John won't mention going on tour with him again; it's bad enough to be going over there for dinner. He turns his attention to the guy in relief. He seems young, still a teen, with a huge bullring taking over his nostrils and a tilted mohawk.

      "Um, sorry to interrupt. But, uh, I may have an offer that you may or may not take, depending on your motivations and desires and, um, I suppose, my ability to say correctly what the offer is." John slaps his free hand on the kid's shoulder.

      "This is the guy that Dragonfly introduced me to. Heard you and her are a thing." He wiggles his eyebrows at Dave and turns to Bull to hear this seemingly mediocre offer.

      "Yes, right. I have a house. Well, I live in a house. And it has a lot of rooms. Vacant rooms, to be exact, and I was told that you've been looking for somewhere to stay. If you would be interested in living with us, um... yeah, you can." His eyes flick around, never quite meeting Dave's.

      "Oh. I didn't realize you were still homeless." John's upbeat demeanor deflates, and he looks at Dave in exactly the way he hates to be looked at; with pity and sympathy.

      "Yeah, well, apparently I ain't. What'd you say your name was?"

      "Oh, um, I don't believe I did. It's Bull. On account of my bullring, ha." He smiles down at the toe sticking out of his sock, wiggling against his rubber sandal.

      The three young men with a basket of chicken wings and a glass of beer shuffle over to the table closest to the bar. Dragonfly is there with her closest friends, Aradia and her boyfriend The Bee Guy. Sickeningly in love they are, bickering and flirting and hanging off each other like they're conjoined twins. They've been together since middle school, the barefoot hippie in long skirts that drag in the dirt and the lanky tech guy with a lisp and the best mushrooms in town. Dave greets them both and keeps a hand on his propped guitar to keep it from sliding to the floor, using his other to shove food in his face so he doesn't have to talk. Scooched away from the table and leaning back in his chair is a stranger with short, nappy dreads. Silently, he listens to the various conversations flying around the table, an arm casually cast around Bull's chair. Behind the safety of his sunglasses, Dave watches him with his head tilted down and slightly turned away to avoid suspicion.

      His eyes are narrowed and slip around the room, from one corner of his eye to the next, never moving his head. The skin on his face is red and flaky, badly on his nose and forehead, and there's a sore at the corner of his upturned lips. His face is long and narrow, pointed slightly at the chin. No one speaks to him, and he makes no effort to join any discussions. Dave leans into Dragonfly and whispers to her, asking who he is.

      "That guy?" She points across the table, and the stranger locks eyes with Dave. All gazes turn to them, conversation ceasing. "That's the Joker, the guy you'll be staying with." After a moment of intense staring, the Joker reaches over the table with a calloused hand. His fingernails are black with dirt, and his knuckles are crusted with dried blood.

      "Pleasure to meet ya, brother." His voice is deep and scratchy. Reluctantly, Dave takes it. Those grimy fingers squeeze tightly, and when Dave squeezes back harder, the Joker's tangled eyebrows lift in surprise. "Well! This motherfucker knows where it's at!" He cackles obnoxiously, and everyone at the table looks away, takes slow gulps of their drinks, whisper quietly to one another.

      For the rest of the evening, those black, piercing eyes trace Dave's every movement. He makes a point to appear casual, and joins a bit in the banter, keeping the guy in his peripheral. Everything about him is all too familiar, and he considers declining the offer, but ultimately decides that he'll give it a shot. Long after the sun has set, the group decides to part ways under the guise of 'sleep' because 'work tomorrow.'

      Even though The Bee Guy is the only one with an actual job, and they rarely stop the party before the sun has risen. Some friends they are. At the bottom of the stairs, Dave hangs back while Bull and the Joker start down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. Dragonfly flings herself into Dave's arms and gives him a chaste kiss, then pulls back and looks at him seriously. "Be careful, the people that live over there only care about getting high and will fuck you over the very second it benefits them. And the Joker especially, he's fucking crazy. Whatever kind of schemes he tries to pull you into, no matter how harmless they seem or how much money it'll make you - don't do it. You hear me, you hardheaded asshole? Just keep your distance and sleep with one eye open."

      "Don't gotta worry about me, babe, I know how to keep up." She kisses him again, and as they walk away, John calls over his shoulder that they're definitely for sure going to hang out before he goes back to school. Dave hefts his guitar into his hands and runs to catch up with the other two before they turn the corner. "So, like, where are we going, exactly?"

      "The Hippie Hotel," Bull answers. "It's not an actual hotel. Well, I guess it is, in the sense that, a lot of people stay for short periods of time, and then leave. But there are also a lot of people that live there, all the time." They cross a street and into a parking lot that is significantly darker than the downtown they had just left.

      "What kinda people?" Dave asks casually, sweeping his eyes across the shadows.

      "Brothers and sisters who need a home." It's the Joker this time, speaking seriously. "People who the world has forgotten, who have no family. I set up this place for travelers to stop by, a safe place to make their _own_ family and discover adventure and connect with their spirituality. And for youngins who ain't got nowhere to be loved." He throws an arm around Bull's shoulders and pulls him into a headlock.

      Bull giggles as they wrestle, and by time they part, they're approaching a beat up VW bus. The sliding door is white and covered in scribbles, which he is informed are the signatures of all the cops that have pulled them over. While the yellow exterior flakes away to reveal the original red, the inside is in fairly good shape. The seating wraps all the way around except for in front of the sliding door, and where the small table takes up space. The cracked vinyl pokes his butt when he sits. A microwave sits on top of the table, surrounded by a few dirty paper plates and red cups. An icebox is built into the vehicle, with a sink covered in green slime set in it. They show him the bed that pops out from the top, and how the couch lays back into a big bed, and all the storage space. Tour must be a hell of a time in this ride.

     On the way, Bull drives, and fumbles with the stick shift. Even though he requests multiple times to stop driving, the Joker calmly and patiently encourages him to keep going, giving him tips along the way. Dave splays out in the back, feigning relaxation. In actuality, his muscles are tense, and he struggles to keep his head clear through the fog of mild drunkenness. Might be better than back home, he promises himself, and if not, he caught a glimpse of red track marks on the Joker's wrist; he can save up enough cash to give himself an overdose, ride it out on the wings of bliss, one last final hoorah. Bull is practically in tears from the traumatizing ten minute ride through nearly-empty streets, and starts to calm down only when they enter a nondescript, middle class neighborhood. They end up at a cul de sac where all the houses seem to be empty, except for one. The driveway is full of cars, and some more are parked in the lawn. It's close enough to the beach that he can almost smell the salt in the air.

      A few people stand around a truck in the dark, laughing, and the Joker stops to chat with them while Bull leads Dave up the porch. He mentally cycles through the defense tips his dad taught him, how he can comfortably sleep with his guitar cradled in his arms, the bag of trail mix in his backpack he'll have for breakfast. A song wafts out the front door as it's opened, the words of God, _"_ _It's alright. I will get by, I will get by, I will get by. I will survive."_

      Jerry himself has delivered reassurance, and Dave knows it comes from him directly; synchronicity is the engine that keeps life moving. He sings along under his breath, squinting through the smoke that blurs the large living room. Messy tapestries and string lights cover the walls, falling down and revealing fist-shaped holes. There is a large speaker system sitting in the corner, blasting the divine message. A handful of people loiter around the various mismatched chairs, smoking and laughing. In the kitchen, a group stands around the kitchen aisle, taking turns snorting lines.

      At the top of the staircase, through a yawn, Bull informs him, "So, yeah, I'm not sure which rooms are empty, but there should be a few. Check down there." He points to the hallway to the left. "And um... yeah, just keep looking. Night." He smiles sleepily, likely exhausted from his panic attack.

      Dave sighs in irritation, and turns to the beaded curtain printed with a pot leaf. It's dark and quiet behind it, aside from the drone of the bass seeping through the floor. There are several doors on each side of the hallway, silence behind each of them. One is ajar, and he can see a tent set up inside of it, a pair of hairy legs tangled in blankets. He knocks on the next one, and when there's no answer, he opens it, but when he flips on the light, a half-naked woman is sprawled on a bare mattress, drooling and softly snoring. Awkwardly, he closes the door, and sees that the last room on the right is wide open. It's empty except for a half-deflated air mattress flipped upside down, and a few dead flies on the windowsill. Home sweet home. He locks the door behind him, twists the knob to make sure it works, fits the mattress in the corner. With his belongings thrown safely in the closet, he wiggles into his sleeping bag on the mattress. It sinks under his weight until he might as well be on the floor. Pressed against the cold wall, curled into himself, still wearing the jeans he hasn't washed in weeks, he tries to force himself into sleep. As uncertain as The Hippie Hotel may be, it's fine for now. After all, it's only until summer.


	2. Built to Last

_[There are times when you can beckon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNHL1ZwZjk0) _

_T_ _here are times when you must call_

_You can take a lot of reckoning_

_But you can't take it all_

_There are times when I can help you out_

_A_ n _d times when you must fall_

 _T_ _here are times when you must live in doubt_

_And I can't help at all_

 

_Three blue stars, rise up on the hill_

_S_ _ay no more now, just be still_

_All these trials, soon be past_

_Look for something, built to last_

 

_A wind held by the collar_

_Got a cloud held by the breeze_

_You can walk on coals of fire_

_But sometimes you must freeze_

_There are times when you offend me_

_And I do the same to you_

_If we can't or won't forget it_

_I_ _guess we could be through_

 

_One blue star, sets on the hill_

_Call it back, you never will_

_One more star, sinks in the past_

_Show me something, built to last_

 

_Built to last till time itself_

_Falls tumbling from the wall_

_Built to last till sunshine fails_

_And darkness moves on all_

_Built to last while years roll past_

_Like cloudscapes in the sky_

_Show me something built to last_

_Or something built to try_

 

_There are times when you get hit upon_

_Try hard but you cannot give_

_Other times you'd gladly part_

_With what you need to live_

_Don't waste your breath to save your face_

_When you have done your best_

_A_ _nd even more is asked of you_

_Fate will decide the rest_

 

_All the stars, are gone but one_

_Morning breaks, here comes the sun_

_Cross the sky, now sinking fast_

_Show me something, built to last_

 

_Three blue stars, rise on the hill_

_Say no more now, just be still_

_All these trials, soon be past_

_Look for something, built to last_

 

_One blue star, sets on the hill_

_Call it back, you never will_

_One more star, sinks in the past_

_Show me something, built to last_

 

_All the stars, are gone but one_

_Morning breaks, here comes the sun_

_Cross the sky, now sinking fast_

_Show me something, built to last_

 

 

      The sweet scent of horse manure and unshowered bodies - downtown. Like a parallel dimension, the main strip is exactly the same every time Dave visits. As if it's a story that pauses until he comes back with his popcorn and plops down to watch some grade-A bullshit. Drama of lost teens and illegal deals and oblivious yuppies. Tourists walk by in groups, squinting in the sun, pretending to be impressed by the old American architecture that has been refurbished to look better than it actually would have in the 1800's. A line of customers wind out the front door of The Sahara, telling stories that they've heard from their parents and grandparents about "the real hippies." From inside, there's a soft undertone of classic rock that doesn't quite penetrate the atmosphere of the large outside deck. Perfect setting for a borderline homeless kid and his guitar to lay down some jams and get a few bucks. To fit with the vibe, he was sure to wear his homemade tie dye shirt (it has a few holes in the armpits and may ride his hips a little too high, but that's all part of the fashion statement), and his beanie with the dancin' bears marching along the seam. Clinging to his shoulders is his backpack for safe keeping. Everything he owns, his home, right here on his person.

      _This_ is what life's all about. This what he fights for every time he wriggles out from his dad's iron fist. People coming together over the message of peace and kindness, serenaded by a dirty hippie begging for money. Doing what you love, feeling the energy of the sun on your face, the power of Jerry Garcia singing through your mouth. No one telling you to do something by a certain time, nagging at you about what you're not doing. True freedom. Despite all that he has to be depressed about, Dave smiles as his fingers pluck the strings in familiar patterns. Mostly he plays the Grateful Dead, occasionally sprinkles in some [Phish](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bKuJkjSXr0M), [Joplin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VcPZSGAyCng), [Beatles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m2uTFF_3MaA), [Floyd](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lX3uCuFKlqw), [Hendrix](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F89MQGlYf64). Even some of his own songs when someone particularly rich walks by, in the hopes that they're on the lookout for the next young rock star. 

      Dragonfly finds him, as she so often does, not long after he sits down. Grinning toothily one moment and then just staring at nothing, sitting stiffly the next. He leans away a bit when she tries to kiss him, and she pretends not to notice. When Karkat stomps towards the back of the restaurant for his break, she follows, and Dave doesn't see her for the rest of the day. It used to bother him, how close they are. They dated for awhile, and he knows very well that Karkat has a lot more going for him. College, a nice family, an actual job. He's a good listener, too, which is the only thing girls _actually_ care about. Dave's bad at pretending to give a shit, but Karkat gives a real shit about everything. On multiple occasions, Dave himself has fallen victim to the guy's irresistible insistence to understand and help. Nosy asshole. Now, though, with his relationship on the cusp of collapse after just shy of a year, he thinks they're probably better for each other. She needs someone to take care of her, and Dave can barely take care of himself. It'd take a lot of pressure off of him. Around noon, when his guitar case has a good carpet of bills, a familiar form in a restaurant uniform plops down beside him. Without looking up, Dave says, "Sup, shithead."

      "Fuck you. You doin' anything for Christmas Eve?" Karkat asks, stuffing a paper bag of food into his backpack. Dave shrugs.

      "Goin' over to a friend's house for dinner. How 'bout you?"

      "Just hanging out with family. Let's cut the shit, shall we? There's something I wanted to talk to you about." Dave pulls out a pack of cigarettes and beats it against his palm in preparation of Karkat's inevitably wordy, naggy rant. "It's not just one thing, really, it's a whole slew of shit that you've gotten her into. I get that you've got issues, being homeless and pissy all the time. I'm honestly impressed that you've managed any kind of relationship at all, quite frankly. It violates Maslow's Hierarchy. But you're leading her on and you know it. She wants so much from you, and if you can't provide that, then just fucking break up with her! I don't know why you're even with her in the first place when you're so clearly not into her. Me and her have been friends for a long time, and I don't appreciate you using her-"

      "Dude, if you want her, just ask her out. She'd dump me for you in a heartbeat," Dave mumbles around the cigarette between his lips. Karkat blanches and stumbles over his words dramatically.

      "That is not what I'm getting at! You know exactly what I'm talking about. Do you even know what the Joker's done to her?" Dave blows a plume of smoke out the corner of his mouth and looks at Karkat quizzically from the space behind his shades. "Are you really that clueless? God, you're unbelievable."

      "Not my fault she doesn't tell me shit."

      "Because she knows you don't care! She doesn't even have to say anything, if you just looked at her you'd know something's up. But you can't take your head out of your own ass long enough to pay attention to anyone but your own shit." Karkat throws his hands up in the air. "Look, it's not really my place to ask, but between two old bros, just tell me - why are you _really_ with her?" Dave runs his calloused fingers over the wooden neck, avoiding Karkat's scrutinizing gaze. Not much thought has ever been put into his relationships. Why wouldn't he be with her? She's a girl, he's a guy, they were into each other at one point and neither of them have called it quits yet. What more is there? Karkat scoffs in the silence. "Yeah, that's what I thought. You two have very different opinions about your relationship and you need to talk about your feelings and intentions-"

      "What are you even doing, exactly? You're not our marriage counselor, she shouldn't even be telling you this shit. Mind your own fucking business." He rolls the cherry of his cigarette between his fingers then sticks it on one of the long strings hanging off his guitar head. Karkat watches him strum the first few lines of some song, his fingers immediately stuttering over the strings. There's something suspicious with the situation. "Why are you still here?" Dave spits. Karkat sighs heavily as he stands.

      "Just think about how much you're hurting her, and decide if whatever you get out of it is worth her pain." He lightly throws a ten dollar bill into the guitar case. What a self-entitled dickhead.

      Dave's good mood is thoroughly soured. Sure, he's been a shit boyfriend, he can agree to that, but it's not like Dragonfly's all that great either. She's so needy, always clinging to his side and wanting to make out. Her sex drive is through the roof, and his poor dick can only take so much. With all the stress that he's had weighing on him, he can't afford to take the time for a relationship and other people's feelings. If he was really that awful, she'd break up with him herself. He refuses to feel guilty about it, or to care about whatever she's doing with the Joker behind his back. The songs he plays after that are softer and slower. A few times, he finds his hands playing their own music while he stares at the ground in contemplation.

      People don't look at him anymore when they throw a few coins into his case. They give him one of those tight-lipped smiles, their eyes brushing over him long enough to feel pity and nothing deeper. He listens to them whisper about gifts they got for their kids and parents and friends, excitedly recount past Decembers spent with family. It's too sunny to feel like the holidays, he thinks. A woman crouches in front of him, encouraging a small toddler to hand him a dollar bill. The kid throws it at him, and demands he plays Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Without acknowledging her, he scrapes the money off the sidewalk and obliges. For whatever stupid reason, people start requesting Christmas songs, so he continues with the holiday cheer. Even though it makes him a little sick with nerves, he makes more than usual.

      He leans his head back against the building and closes his eyes. The last time he had an actual holiday celebration was when he was fifteen. Around the time he fucked everything up. He thinks again of Karkat, accusing him of being selfish and callous. It's true, but at least he's trying to make this one thing with John right. He's not a total jerk if he acknowledges he's a shitty person and occasionally makes up for it, right? He startles forward when a hand ruffles his hair. Roxy, an old friend he'd met at this very bar a few years ago, grins down at him. "Hey, dude! I just got paid, wanna get drunk?"

      A few rounds later, Roxy is snorting vodka out of her nose and fanning at her face. Dave tunes out her obnoxious whining, staring out at the sidewalk with his back to the bar. She puts a hand on his shoulder, gasping for air dramatically. "Sorry, what's that? Can't hear you over my lack of fucks I don't give." Her laughter carries over the noise of the whole restaurant. Several people turn to stare, but she doesn't seem to notice. Between giggles, she tries to order him another drink. "Oh, no thanks, I gotta be somewhere. I don't want to blow it. Again." She orders the drinks anyways and cradles them both in her palms.

      "What's the situation, my man? Tell mama Rox all about it," she says around the straw she's been chewing on. Dave shrugs nonchalantly.

      "I agreed to hang out with an old friend I screwed over when we were kids since I ain't doin' anything for Christmas. Tryin' to like, make amends or whatever." Roxy perks up a bit and punches him in the shoulder playfully.

      "Well, hey! I'm not doin' anything for Christmas. Maybe we could-" Dave suddenly erupts into laughter. Roxy sadly follows his gaze to the front of restaurant.

      John zooms past on a skateboard, arms flailing, then hits a crack in the sidewalk. He screeches as he face-plants, his head bouncing against the concrete. A few bystanders stop to oggle, and one man hesitates before asking if he's alright. Dave quickly thanks Roxy for the drinks and jumps down the stairs with his guitar. He holds out a hand, and John accepts it, pressing the sleeve of his hoodie to his forehead as he stands. When he takes it away, there's a small blotch of red on the blue material. "I give it a six. Would be higher if there was more blood," Dave jokes, and John laughs a bit unsteadily, pressing his hand again to his wound.

      "It's my dad's early Christmas present. Don't know how I'm supposed to take it on the plane with me." He glares at the offensive vehicle seriously, then turns back to Dave with his infamous goofy grin. "Why do you have a bag with you, are you staying the night?"

      "Oh, nah, I just take all my shit with me cause I don't trust people back at the house not to steal it." Yes, John, this is everything he has, he assures. A guitar and a backpack. Yeah, that's really it. Seriously.

      They start towards the main road to John's car. Anxiety buzzes in Dave's head at the task looming in front of him. Why did he think it was a good idea to get drunk again? John rambles a bit about the presents he got for his dad and his sister. He wrings his hands together a bit before saying, "Geez, I'm talking your ear off. I know in this situation I'm supposed to ask about your Christmas, but honestly, I don't know if that would be insensitive of me. I mean, I'd really like to know what's going on with you, of course! But if it would like, bring up some shit or make you feel bad, you don't have to say anything. Not that you need my permission for what to and not to say." He laughs awkwardly, and they dip into silence. Dave's trying too hard to hide that he's sloppier than usual. If John notices that he's acting a little weird, he doesn't make any indication.

      "Um, I mean, this is about it. Dinner with y'all and then... hang out with Roxy and get drunker - I mean drunk, I guess. It's probably gonna be pretty busy down here tomorrow, so I'm gonna pop a squat somewhere and make some mad bank." John nods sadly, looks at him with a furrowed brow. Dave clenches his jaw, trying not to get angry at the rampant sympathy the universe likes to throw at him. Their feeble attempts at small talk eventually peter out. They walk with a good distance between them, glancing at the shops that they pass with more interest than either of them feel. As they wait to cross the busy street in the center of town - because John adamantly refuses to jaywalk - Dave spots two young kids, Karako and Wanshi, sitting on a blanket. They yell at tourists to buy their bottles of glittery, colorful liquid. Swirlies. It's a top secret recipe so don't bother Googling how to make them. There's a cardboard sign on the corner of the blanket pricing them at five dollars, similarly glittery and colorful. Their parents trade a couple hits of acid for mushrooms with Dave at every show in town. Just as the lights change, permitting them to cross, Dave starts towards the rambunctious kids and kneels in front of them. "Sup, kiddos? How's business been?" The boy twirls around in a crouched circle like a monkey, his wooden beaded necklace smacking him in the face.

      "Terrible! We've only sold like two because Karako keeps scaring them away." Wanshi smacks her brother until he collapses onto his back with his tongue hanging out and his eyes closed, making various 'blugh' sounds. John crouches in front of the blanket and holds a bottle in the shape of a dolphin up to the sun, admiring the flecks of swirling gold in the purple. He holds out a five, but the kids are too preoccupied with their own bickering to notice. Coins scatter as a paper cup is knocked over in their fussing.

      "Wanshi. Wanshi. Hey, kid!" Dave nudges the girl. She glares over at him, then drops the coins in her hands to happily snatch the money from John. Dave takes up a mottled gray bottle in the shape of a skull and hands over a few of his own ones. "So what are y'all doin' out here, shouldn't you be at home with your mom and grandma?"

      "We don't have a tree or presents this year because mama's too sick but we wanted to get her something so we're out here making some money." Wanshi shouts at a passerby, tugging on their purse to get their attention, and snarls when she's ignored. By 'sick' she of course means high out of her mind. They're broke because they have an up and coming meth business that hasn't quite taken off yet. To the kids though, they want to do something special for their mom who's in and out of the hospital - and jail - for Christmas. Before Dave can respond, a shadow is cast over them. They all look up at a man with dramatically arched eyebrows, hands clasped behind his back.

      "Hello, I am Mr. Tagora Gorjek, legal owner of swirlies, and I'm going to have to ask you to hand over your products and profit. If you refuse, I will be forced to sue you for selling a copyrighted item. This is the third time this week alone that I have reprimanded you for your misgivings, and you still have not complied. This is the last time I will approach you personally; next time, I will bring my lawyer." His eyes flick over to Dave and John, and smirks. "Or, if you wish, you may continue to sell, giving me eighty percent of your earnings. We can set up weekly meetings at the most convenient time for you. It's your choice." His voice is nasally. He takes a large step back when Dave rises to his feet, the smirk disappearing.

      "Copyrighted? Man, these guys are out here almost every day selling swirlies. I ain't never seen you out here doin' shit. Hell, _I_ was selling swirlies as a kid. If anything, anyone under the age of twelve has legal ownership of 'em. Wanna try that again, maybe give these hard workers here a few bucks?" Dave stares at the man cooly, his fingers itching to form fists.

      "I absolutely do not. Are you all co-conspirators? Perhaps I  _will_ involve my attorney if it comes to it."

      "Ooh, no, not an attorney! We better back off before we go to prison for the rest of our lives!" John slaps his hands onto either side of his face, hanging his mouth open sarcastically.

      "How dare you mock me? You are breaking the law! These children have been out here for weeks despite my consistent confrontations. I have been  _kind,_  but my patience has worn thin _._  I have the right to call the police right now!" Tagora takes out his phone, types furiously, and holds it to his ear. He bends to collect the swirlies in his arms as he talks. There's an acoustic bang, and then  _Mr. Gorjek_ suddenly finds himself on the ground with a throbbing cheek and scraped palms. Bottles go clinking into the street, and Wanshi runs to scoop them up as Karako giggles wildly. Dave hovers above the man, holding his guitar in both hands threateningly. Excited warmth spreads through his limbs as he stares him down. God, it's nice to be in control.

      "Dave, we should go..." John pulls on his arm, but Dave doesn't budge.

      "Leave or we go for round two," he says gravely. Tagora holds his arm in front of his face, twisted up into a flinch. Despite his fear, he yells in the general direction of his phone that he's been attacked. He finishes by threatening to sue Dave for all his worth. "Well, you're gonna be piss poor disappointed, then." His grip tightens around his instrument, he lifts it a bit, and he looks down at the pathetic man again. To the side, Wanshi's chubby little face is scrunched in concern, and John is poised as if to stop him. A few onlookers stare at them judgmentally. The power drains from him very suddenly, and he instead turns to the kids. "You guys are gonna wanna wrap this up here and shoot, you don't wanna get caught up with the cops." As he finishes his statement, they hear sirens.

      Damn downtown cops, always hungry to shoot someone and get their fifteen minutes of fame on the morning news. The kids immediately scramble to wrap their bottles up in the blanket, and Tagora wrestles them for it. Someone from the growing crowd of spectators kicks his hand out of the way. Dave quickly whispers in John's ear, asking where he parked. With all his years spent downtown, Dave knows all the back roads to get there. He smiles at the challenge, then runs straight into traffic in disorientation. Using his guitar as a shield, he continues across all four lanes, nearly causing a collision, skidding against the front of a VW bug, and then jumps over two cars that are parked too close together to squeeze between. He looks over his shoulder at John, who bounces around impatiently, waiting for the light to change. Tagora tugs on his shirt and board, shouting about lawyers and disrespect.

      Delirious laughter bubbles up Dave's throat as he runs backwards down the sidewalk, calling after his old friend. Adrenaline pulses into his veins, and he revels in its familiarity. It's been too long since he's gotten into trouble. A cop car with its lights flashing is stuck in traffic not too far away. The one in the passenger seat slides out and starts jogging towards Dave just as the light changes. They sprint down the sidewalk, shoving people out of the way as they go. John spins in a stumbling circle around a small, yapping dog. The owner shouts at him as they continue their escape. Dave leads them into a fancy hotel with marble columns and a fountain in the middle of the lobby. Snobby rich people scrunch their five thousand dollar noses at the flustered young men rushing to the back exit.

      In a moment of misfortune, the guitar gets stuck in the revolving door. Dave yanks on it desperately as John hops around from the outside, encouraging him to  _go go go._  It takes enough time for the cop to catch up to them. He holds up a taser threateningly just as Dave wrenches his instrument free. He stumbles backwards out the door and watches John hold his hands above his head. "Freeze and drop your weapon! You are under arrest!" On one hand, it's part of the bro code to help a bro out when he's about to get tasered and arrested. But on the other hand, his dad could and would bail him out. If Dave were to help and go to jail, he'd be stuck in there for a while; he's got a lot of shit on his record and no one who cares about him. As he contemplates the dilemma, the officer reaches for the skateboard, and faster than anyone thought him capable, John swings it into the side of his head.

      "Hell yeah, stick it to the man!" Dave whoops in celebration, pumping his fists in the air. John flashes him a look of panic, and follows Dave down a few streets, then into the side entrance of a cafe. Chairs are overturned, drinks are spilled, chaos engulfs everything in their wake as they run through the dining area and into the kitchen. Dave greets the chefs he once worked with for a few weeks. He slips on the greasy floor and falls on his ass. John flails his arms, sliding across the room, and stumbles into a woman carrying a container of iced tea. It splashes onto the floor, causing his feet to swing out from under him. There's angry shouting from just outside the kitchen, and they quickly scramble to the back door on their hands and knees. They burst into a dirty parking lot, John's wet pants chilling his legs in the mild cold, and pause to catch their breath. At the sound of more arguing and clanging from inside, they slap at each other in panic before taking off again. They continue weaving down side streets, their chests and throats burning. And finally, they make it to where John parked. It's his dad's new car, and the only thing he remembers about it is the fedora sitting on the backseat. They stumble around, tugging on the fob until the panic alarm goes off. 

      Moments later, John bends over the steering wheel, clutching his chest. Dave crawls into the back with his guitar and pounds on the passenger seat. "Let's book it before they catch up!" He giggles as John speeds out of the parking lot.

      "I can't believe you dragged me into that, Dave! I can't survive in jail! I could get kicked out of school!" Dave laughs again. "I'm serious!"

      "Chill out, man. You'd've spent a week, tops, and then your dad'd bail you out and everything'd be fine-"

      "No! It's not fine!" In his frustration, John runs a red light. He curses loudly. The fun drains out of Dave. He crosses his arms and slumps into the seat. "I don't want to go to jail at  _all._ I don't want to get in trouble, I don't want to have a record. I'm not like you."

      "The fuck is that supposed to mean?" John presses his lips together. "Just drop me off wherever, I'll find my way back home."

      "I promised my dad you'd be there. You need to help me explain to him what happened so he knows it wasn't my fault."

      "Dude, how wasn't it your fault? I didn't ask you to follow me. I didn't tell you to hit a cop. At least I man up to my mistakes instead of crying about disappointing my dad."

      "At least I _have_ someone to disappoint." It's a blow Dave feels in his stomach. Impulsively, he reaches for the door handle, planning on throwing himself out onto the street, but John sighs loudly, immediately apologetic. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. The whole point of inviting you over was to bring us together again. You're the delinquent of the family, it's a part of every family's dynamic. We've missed you, all of us. And you're right, it was my fault. I'll tell him after you're gone so it doesn't ruin the night, okay?" Dave's head throbs as he stares out the window in moody silence. He doesn't move as they pull into the driveway of the house that looks the same as every other one on the block, except for that stupid green pogo ride. John sits with him in the quiet. "He's not going to be mad, you know. He never was." Dave doesn't answer. A few more moments pass. "He was mostly just sad that you were gone and that he couldn't help you anymore. Come on." John offers a small smile, and opens his door. Dave reluctantly follows.

      The moment they walk into the house, Dad calls to them from the kitchen. The smell of baking pie hangs in the air, and Dave's chest twinges with nostalgia and remorse. Every weekend the four of them would spend a day making various baked goods, and they would give them away at school, church, work. They walk through the unchanged living room and into the kitchen. Dad gasps and stalks towards his bloodied son. Just before putting his powdery hands on John's face, he wipes them off on his pink, frilly apron with stunning calligraphy that says, _Hi, Hungry! I'm dad!_ He has the same strong mustache and kind eyes. John pushes him away and insists that he's fine, it was just a skateboarding accident, that he'll clean it up himself. As he does so at the kitchen sink, warding off threats to take him to the ER, Dave awkwardly leans against the door frame. They bicker a bit more, then in exasperation, Dad finally turns away from him.

      "Dave. Let me look at you." Dad Egbert stands in front of Dave with his hands on his hips, examining him up and down. Dave straightens a bit, hiding his grungy hands behind his back. A smile plays on Dad's lips. "Welcome back, young man." He descends, crushing Dave in a tight hug. For the first time in a very, very long time, Dave doesn't feel the urge to pull away. And if his cheek just so happens to press against Dad's chest with restrained longing... simply a matter of circumstance. Dad quickly puts the two boys to work making more pies for Christmas dinner. There are no more pleasantries before he says, "So might I ask what you did after you stole my mother's ashes and disappeared?"

      Flour dusts Dave's shirt as he drops a glob of batter onto the counter. The back of his neck tingles as he expects anger, disappointment, violence. He's suspicious of the calm and casual manner in which Dad speaks. Too familiar to be comfortable. Despite the potential consequences, Dave knows that they deserve to know the truth. Once again, he thinks of Karkat, wondering when he started caring about what that douche bag thinks of him. It's hard to push any words out at all, let alone the ones he wants to say. He kneads the dough in front of him with more enthusiasm than necessary. "I didn't mean to steal the ashes. I mean, it wasn't like an accident, they didn't just fall into my pocket. Like some kind of ninja grandma, pulling ghosty tricks. That's totally something she'd do, isn't it?" He cuts himself off, grinding his teeth together. He takes a slow breath, and lets it out heavily. "I just, you know... I just wanted the urn." Dad nods in understanding as he slides his own pastry into the oven.

      "It was very expensive. And what did you do with the ashes?" The only sound in the room is the hum of electricity and John's knife lightly nicking the cutting board as he slices strawberries. Dave's tongue is heavy and thick. He looks down at his stilled hands, covered in dough and flour.

      "I threw them in a dumpster." Guilt curdles in his stomach worse than it has in a while. He's gotten so good at burying it, but nostalgia takes up a lot of room in his chest; there just isn't anywhere to put it.

      "What did you buy with the money?" Dad leans against the counter and watches Dave patiently. The scene is very similar to the first time Dave tried to run away, when he was only thirteen. He stood in the same kitchen, glaring at the floor to hold the tears at bay. Dad had held him by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. _"You're not alone anymore, son. You're safe here,"_ he said. He had promised Dave a stable, healthy, normal home, and that's exactly what he got. They ate at the dinner table every night. Dad helped with their homework. They said I love you every time they left the house. It was a nice year, a small taste of normality. Until he fucked up and ran away, like he always does.

      "I got that guitar." He laughs nervously, turning to nod at the instrument propped against the wall and sneaking a look at Dad's face. His expression is relaxed, and there's even a small smile, which startles him enough to take a longer look. No hostility, no anger. Just a compassionate man who maybe actually genuinely cares. Wrinkles spread from the corners of his eyes and line his forehead. Shamefully, Dave relaxes with the thought that he could probably take him on.

      "I'm glad you bought something useful. John says that's what you do to get money-"

      "I can pay you back," Dave says, reaching for his pockets to pull out some cash. Dad laughs heartily and waves his hands around.

      "Don't be ridiculous! You need it much more than I do. She would be glad to have helped. _I'm_ glad she helped. Although, if you had asked, I would have bought you a guitar myself. I truly see you as one of my children." _See_ , Dave notes, his heart stumbling a bit. "You didn't have to run away, son, I would have helped you make things right." Never has Dave felt more like a disobedient child who is desperate for his father's approval back.

      "I am so, _so_ fucking sorry," he says quietly, looking Dad steadily in the eye. It's not enough, but it's all he can manage at the moment without crying. Dad holds him to his chest again, gentler this time, swaying softly.

      "You were just a kid, Dave. You were scared, and you had every right to be. But you're here now, and we're going to have a lovely dinner together. It's alright now. It's alright." From beside him, John wipes away a stray tear.

      It's the most peaceful Christmas Eve he's had since he left the Egberts seven years ago. They eat at the dinner table, the three of them cracking cheesy jokes and laughing much harder than called for. John swears he forgives him, and they have agreed to stay in contact, to see each other whenever he comes back to visit, and every Christmas from then on. _'Because that's what families do.'_   The living room glows warmly with Christmas music. They watch light-hearted movies, throw popcorn into each other's mouths, and fall asleep on the couch.

      Dave is the first to open his eyes in the morning, to a glowing house full of safety and amiability. It's a surreal contrast from the cold, empty, loud house he's now used to waking up in. The only one he's _ever_ lived in where he didn't feel the need to look over his shoulder or keep a tally of his belongings. He aches for the childhood that was ripped away from him. He hurts for the family he almost had, for the unnecessary pain he caused them in a moment of anger and impulse. He also feels gratitude for the lifelong friend snoring on the other side of the couch, and the sweet man that offered him guidance and love when there was nothing in his life but confusion. Then he remembers the trouble he got John into, and knows that it's better not to stick around.

      They have pie for breakfast. They call Jade, and she excitedly tells them about all the people she has met while touring with various hippie bands. A few of them knew Dave, and have given her somewhere to stay or something to eat on his behalf. Dad thanks him for that, smiles at him proudly. When him and John stand by the front door pulling on their jackets, Dad reminds him that he's just a phone call away. He doesn't offer to take him in again, and Dave doesn't ask. For the first time in years, he initiates a hug. He thanks his stand-in father again, compliments the food, and they make plans to hang out on New Year's. Plans he has no intention of keeping. For Dad's sake.

      Back at the Hotel, a cop car idles on the curb. The two boys exchange a wary look, and cautiously park just behind him. "Hey, boys!" An officer hangs halfway out the window to wave them over. His double chin sways in the breeze, his bald head shines in the sun. Dave whispers for John to keep quiet and play along. John nods and follows him to the officer nervously, toying with the car keys in his hands. "What'cha up to, boys? You live here?"

      "No, sir. My friend's just dropping me off to hang out. There a problem?" Dave asks smoothly, without a care in the world.

      "What are your names?" The cop smacks on gum loudly, pressing a pen to a raggedy notepad.

      "I'm Stewart, this is Max." John raises his hand and swivels it in the air, jangling the keys obnoxiously. 

      "Either of you know Dave Strider? He supposedly lives here. Blonde, tall, skinny but buff. Looks kinda like you, pro'bly. Know 'im?" Dave blinks at him from behind his sunglasses and rubs his chin in contemplation.

      "Can't say as I do. He in trouble for somethin'?" The cop's mouth hangs open a bit and he breathes loudly as he scribbles on his notepad. He jostles around in the seat, making the whole car shake, and pulls a card from his back pocket.

      "Warrant out for his arrest. Assault or whatever. Not a single person in that house that isn't in trouble. My advice to you, kid - go back home. Nothing but losers and junkies in here. Keep hanging out with the wrong crowd and you'll end up just like 'em." He hands the card to Dave. "Call if you see or hear of him. Dave Strider, got that, Stew? Alright, have a good day, now." He rolls his window up and skids away without a single look back.

      "Well, thanks for the ride, Max." Dave chuckles, but clears his throat of it when he sees John's face, flushed with anxiety.

      "Why didn't he ask about me? Does he know where I live? What if he's going to my house right now to arrest me?" He grips Dave's wrist tightly.

      "He probably didn't ask because he has no idea who you are. Everybody downtown knows about the scrappy blonde kid with a guitar. No one knows who you are, and they're not going to. Talk to your dad about what to do, I dunno. I'll call you sometime to check out what happened, yeah?" John nods. He waves one last time and climbs back into his dad's car. One more promise he'll hate to break. Music slips out of the cracks of the house, shadows of dancing people waver in the windows. A stray drunk sprawls out on the front steps. It's colder here than the bright Egbert suburban neighborhood. Dave stands on the porch, watching the old vehicle with a hand waving out the window drive away. A moment of silence passes in mourning of the last few days. It was nice, but dwelling on it will only make it hurt worse. 

      Through the open screen door, he sees the Joker leering at him. "Thought you was bouta get arrested, brother. We didn't tell him nothin', honest to God," he says as Dave walks in. Remembering that he's wearing shades, Dave allows himself a glare and ignores him. He trudges up the staircase to his room, sucking in a breath of secondhand marijuana smoke. Home sweet home. When he collapses onto the mattress, it squeaks pathetically, and all the air slowly drains out of it. He pulls his music journal and guitar out, and attempts to write a new Christmas song. One about family, with depth and importance. One that actually means something. He only ends up swearing and throwing them both to the ground in aggravation. 


	3. Comes a Time

_[Comes a time when the blind-man takes your hand, says "Don't you see?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=csJ1t0KyhSc) _

_Gotta make it somehow on the dreams you still believe."_

_Don't give it up, you got an empty cup only love can fill,_

_Only love can fill._

 

_Been walking all morning went walking all night_

_I can't see much difference between the dark and light_

_And I feel the wind and I taste the rain_

_Never in my mind to cause so much pain._

 

_Comes a time when the blind-man takes your hand, says "Don't you see?_

_Gotta make it somehow on the the dreams you still believe."_

_Don't give it up, you got an empty cup only love can fill,_

_Only love can fill._

 

_From day to day just letting it ride._

_You get so far away from how it feels inside._

_You can't let go cause you're afraid to fall,_

_But the day may come when you can't feel at all._

 

_The words come out like an angry stream._

_You hear yourself say things you could never mean._

_When you cool down you find your mind._

_You got a lot of words you've got to stand behind._

 

_Comes a time when the blind-man takes your hand, says "Don't you see?_

_Gotta make it somehow on the dreams you still believe."_

_Don't give it up, you got an empty cup only love can fill,_

_Only love can fill, only love can fill, only love can fill._

 

      Dragonfly wraps her arms around herself as she stumbles out of the shining morning light and into the overheated living room. She holds her fingers against the ache in her temples. "Where have you been?" Her sister is, of course, sitting on the couch, waiting for her.

      "God, why is it so fucking hot in here? It's only like sixty degrees outside." Dragonfly feels along the wall until she finds the thermostat. Moments later, she can feel Latula breathing down the back of her neck. Her hands are yanked away, the thermostat readjusted. She huffs in annoyance.

      "You missed New Year's. And mom's birthday. Again. Got anything to say for yourself?" Latula's using the same tone of voice their mom used when they were teenagers and had stayed out past curfew. Dragonfly shoves past her, scoffing, and stumbles down the hallway. "Hey, pay attention to me when I'm talking to you. Where have you been?" Latula grabs her shoulder and jerks it back. Dragonfly stares ahead blankly before belching and leaning forward a bit, releasing a downpour of liquid vomit that pools on the carpet. She jerks her shoulder out of Latula's grip and slams the bathroom door behind her. The loud bang probably hurts her more than her sister, but it's the thought that counts. "You're really gonna make _me_ clean that up? You're fucking disgusting, you know that?"

      As a matter of fact, it's the only thing in the world Dragonfly knows for certain. She scrubs her tongue with her bare toothbrush for a couple of seconds, then pulls her pants down and collapses onto the toilet. The smell of blood wafts into her nose, and when she feels her underwear, it's wet. So wet it probably leaked through her pants and skirt, and no one bothered to tell her. A lovely cherry on the cake of shit she's been going since Christmas. Is there anyone up there looking out for her, or is she completely alone on this shitty microscopic rock?

      Steaming hot water sends tingles through her body. The all-natural peppermint soap Aradia made for her a while ago has a very strong smell that Latula hates. It's not meant to be used on both skin and hair, which Dragonfly does in favor of using the plethora of soaps and shampoos her sister bought her. Just to piss her off. She sits in the tub long after she's clean and the water has turned cold. She grips her toes and smushes her face into her bony knees, drifting in and out of sleep. A knock on the door startles her awake. "Get out, you're running the water bill up! I made you some breakfast and a pot of coffee." Dragonfly remains silent as she turns off the water and dries herself off. Latula bangs on the door again. "I'm headed off to work. Just stay home, sleep it off, watch some TV. Take it easy until I get back and we can watch a movie or somethin', okay?"

      With only a towel wrapped around her body, Dragonfly opens the door. "I don't need you to tell me what to do." She pushes past her sister, who looks crestfallen. Just before she goes into her bedroom, Dragonfly pauses and adds, "Thanks for breakfast." Latula has the dirty clothes she left on the bathroom floor in her hands, and smiles a bit.

      For the rest of the day, occasionally wrapped in her towel and other times completely naked, Dragonfly stays home, sleeps, and watches TV. A single serving of leftover lasagna sits in the fridge. She takes only a few bites, cold, and leaves the rest in the sink. In the early evening, there's a knock at the door, and Aradia walks in without prompting. "Oh! Perfect, you're naked! Wanna come over and try out our new experimental batch of honey?" She sits on the coffee table, smiling down at her friend half-hanging off the sofa. Dragonfly groans in response, facing the back of the couch in the fetal position. Four deep purple bruises, spaced side by side like fingerprints, paint her shoulder. Aradia stares at them for a few moments. "Have you talked to Dave lately?" Dragonfly shrugs.

      "Like a week ago. Was he downtown today?"

      "Didn't see him. I can get The Bee Guy to go check on him on his way home from work." She pulls out her phone.

      "Don't bother. I don't even care. It's not like we're really even dating, anyways. I don't know that we ever were." Aradia follows her into her bedroom and leans against the door frame, watching Dragonfly as she picks through a pile of folded clothes on her bed, throwing the ones she doesn't want to the floor.

      "When's the last time you slept with him?" She asks softly.

      "I don't know, a few weeks ago. Why?"

      "I meant the Joker." Dragonfly turns her face away.

      "Last night. I went to see Dave, actually, but he was holed up in his room I guess, and the Joker was just... there. So we drank and fucked and cried and yelled. You know, the usual." She pulls on a pair of patchwork pants, tosses a long olive skirt over it.

      "You kinda went off the grid there for a bit, sweetie. Were you at the Hotel the entire time?" Dragonfly wraps a flowery scarf around her hips, and digs around her dresser drawers, muttering to herself. She comes up with an 'a-ha!' and a bandanna, which she ties around her head. If she's being honest with herself, which is rarely, she isn't quite sure where she's been. Mostly at the hotel, but she's been so high on whatever she can get her hands on that there are a few holes in her memory.

      "I wish sometimes that Dave would come out to see what's going on. We're loud enough, Jesus. I keep..." She pauses with her head halfway through a tie dyed long sleeve shirt. She looks comical, but her voice is heavy and sober. "I keep imagining him walking in on us, and then pulling that nasty fucker off of me and beating the shit out of him." Her head pops through and she adjusts her bandanna. "I want to bash his brains in. When he's on top of me, panting in my face like a fucking dog, I like to think about popping his eyes out with my thumbs." To complete the outfit, she pulls on a sequin tank top, and feels around for her purse. "I have dreams about punching him, over and over, putting all of my anger and hatred into it, feeling his ugly face break under my fists." She turns around with a wide grin, slinging the bag over her shoulder. "I'd love to do that for real someday. It's on my bucketlist."

      They start towards the front door, and Aradia asks, "So, why do you keep going to him? I've never understood it. You hate being with him, all you ever do is complain, but you're the one that goes to _him_. Why?" Dragonfly waits until they're in the car to answer.

      "Cause he gives me free drugs?" She offers lamely. Aradia stares at her with wrinkled brows and a frown. Dragonfly turns her face away from her friend's searching eyes.

      "Well, we give you free drugs, so you can just hang out with us instead." She turns the car on and cranks the radio, jostling her friend until they're singing together with their hands pounding on the ceiling. Forever leaving the past behind her, for better or for worse, Dragonfly's spirits have been thoroughly lifted when they arrive at Aradia and The Bee Guy's house. 

      Covering the small home from top to bottom are paintings of flowers, bugs, evolution, and sacred geometry. Past a little gate is a winding stone path in patterns of the moon, the sun, and stars. The path leads through a garden, complete with a pond and cheerful gnomes. Even the front door is painted to look old and swallowed by jasmine vines, carefully carved with ancient symbols. The inside smells like nag champa incense, filling Dragonfly with instant peace. Framed posters, various paintings, and shelves overflowing with knick-knacks decorate the walls. Wherever there's space, there's a plant, and crocheted blankets drape every surface. Positivity infuses the space with calm and warmth. She feels safe here, with possibly the only two people in the whole world that are good. The dreaded girl interested in everything, and the grumpy guy with a big heart. Dragonfly frequently tells them so, as if they could possibly doubt it. It's because of the mushrooms, they say.

      Strings of twine run from one wall of the office to the other with drying fungi clamped onto them. In the corner of the room is a computer desk, exclusively used for The Bee Guy's nerdy codes. It's a wonder he doesn't get enough of that at work. Aradia ducks under the maze of string and shuffles to a bookshelf littered with jars. Some are full of honey, like the one tinted a light green, messily labeled _Alien Jizz_ in sharpie right on the glass. She remembers when they came up with the name, all three of them sitting on the floor laughing together after having consumed it. Beside it is a jar of honey that's such a dark purple it's almost black. A piece of masking tape is stuck to it, deeming it _The Universe._ Holding it up to the light, she describes the different shades of violet and lavender and the speckles of white to her blind friend, who listens with a soft smile.

      As they wait for The Bee Guy to get off work, the two girls start setting up for the evening. They put a kettle on the stove, and drag out a big plastic tote full of art supplies to the back patio. Dragonfly helps Aradia water some of the plants, and they pick a few strawberries and grapes from their vines. They feed the chickens and check their little hay-filled cubbies for eggs. Bees buzz around their hives in the corner of the backyard, butterflies bob above the plethora of flowers, and dragonflies flit through the vegetables. A fluffy white cat winds around their ankles for attention. All is right in this part of the world, at least.

      By the time The Bee Guy gets home, the table is littered with canvas and paints. The tea kettle screams at him as he passes, so he takes it and a few mugs into the backyard, smiling as he goes. It's a beautiful thing to come home to, he thinks. They all pick out their favorite homemade tea flavors, stir in the purple honey, sit back, and enjoy. This has become an almost weekly ritual for the three of them, save for the few where Dragonfly had disappeared. She does that sometimes. Whenever the illusion of the "real" world becomes too much to handle, they can always fall back on the gifts the earth has given them wrapped in cow shit. Fat bees land on the paints, then fly away from their chemical smell. A string of solar-panel lights wrapped up and down the posts of the porch and tangled along the roof turn on as the sun sets, illuminating their work area in blue. One corner of the house is painted white, from the roof to the foundation, about two feet wide. As is customary, The Bee Guy stands in front of it with a paintbrush, the girls on either side of him. They encourage him to paint whatever comes to him, whatever he feels in his heart, whatever inspires him. With a trembling hand, he makes a single purple stroke, and they all cheer and hug. Soon, after many more nights of encouragement and shaky streaks of color, it will be his masterpiece. Conspiracy theories are a favored topic, and the deep chasms of their souls. They wander through the garden holding hands, marveling at the beauty of organic life. Dragonfly ignores the feeling that their fingers feel foreign in her hands, like they're a step out of place. 

      All at once, The Bee Guy gets very serious. His eyes glaze over and he confesses that he sometimes feels suffocated. Within his body, in the same beautiful house that he wakes up in every day. He knows the whole state of Florida like the back of his hand, he's been to every single state in the US. He knows the way up to Toronto by heart. The world can't really be as small as it feels, can it? It's only the infinite, incomprehensible expanse of the universe that gives him enough room to breathe. As long as there is always somewhere else to potentially escape to, even just in his mind, he can handle being here. He holds the jar of honey between his palms. "I'm holding the universe in my hands, right now. In all of its unending possibility. That's exactly how it feels, too..." They all sit in respectful silence. Aradia reminds him that it's because he's a star seed; his spirit isn't used to being limited. It was once a free form energy, able to explore all dimensions and spaces. But the experience of a physical being is just as important and cosmic and beautiful, she assures. Dragonfly listens with a frown. She could never compare to such creatures as these two. Without having to say anything, they kiss her cheeks, declaring that she is just as much an alien as they are. They kiss her shoulders and her lips, telling her she is as elegant as the entire galaxy and beyond. She resists the urge to pull away, disgusted with her presence dirtying their skin.

      She's able to hide the feeling from her occasional lovers by hiding it from herself. After so many hours, thoughts of her not-quite boyfriend and the emptiness it leaves in her are temporarily repressed. Happiness, as synthetic as it may be, fills all of their chests and, like usual, they end up in a pile of limbs and laughter on the ground. Lying on her stomach, Aradia fondly watches two of her favorite people, and asks, "So, are we gonna take this to the bedroom, or just do it out here like animals?"

      "We are animals. Nothing but monkeys with big globs of fat in our heads." The Bee Guy stands anyways, a sloppy grin dripping from his face.

      "Apes, actually," she corrects, starting towards her boyfriend's open arms. From her position on the ground, Dragonfly listens to them kiss and fondle each other, her stomach sinking. The Bee Guy nudges her with his foot without opening his eyes, and reaches a hand down for her. She stands, ignoring it.

      "Yeah, uh, I think I'll pass for tonight, actually." Feigning a smile, she turns as if to leave, but Aradia grabs her hand.

      "Wait, why? I thought we were having a good time." 

      "I just started my period, so." She holds her hands up to say _oh well._ The Bee Guy and Aradia share a look.

      "Babe, what's going on? Talk to us."

      Dragonfly sways a bit as she thinks of how to answer. Evasively or truthfully? The comforting, sensual touches from the couple throughout the evening had soured in her mind. Her relationship with Dave grew more complicated as she fell more in love with him, and he pulled further away. Having a threesome with the best people she knows would normally cheer her up, release some dopamine and endorphins. Tonight, it had just made her chest ache. More than anything, she wants what they have, and ideally, she would like it with Dave. The impossibility of it ever happening is what hurts. "I've just been thinking about Dave a lot." Aradia runs a hand up her arm.

      "Come on hun, tell us about it." She steers Dragonfly to a chair, and they all sit around together. Mucus trickles into her nose as she's about to cry, making her sneeze. 

      "I don't understand why I love him. He's awful to me. There isn't even anything I _like_ about him. Except that he's a good enough person to not be evil but shitty enough that I don't feel like he's too good for me. I don't see him for a few weeks and I barely even think about him, I think I'm over it. But then I see him again, and it's like..." She smooths her fingers across her chest and sighs. "I fall in love with him all over again. He's like me, you know? He's a fuckup."

      "You're not a fuckup," they both say at the same time. Dragonfly laughs, then sniffles.

      "Sure. The only reason I'm not homeless is because my family doesn't know when to give up. It's bound to happen soon though, I can feel it. I just don't fucking understand him. I just want to be appreciated, and I don't want to have to compromise who I am to be worthy. Sex isn't the only thing that makes me lovable, it can't be. It just can't be..." She sighs again.

      "You're an actual fucking genius, Dragonfly," The Bee Guy says. "When you can understand everyone at a single glance, of course you'd chase after the one guy you can't wrap your head around. He's a challenge. Stimulating, tantalizing and all that shit." 

      "But sometimes it goes beyond a challenge and is just... a problem. Love isn't the only important thing in a relationship, you know." Aradia grabs her hand.

      "Yeah, exactly. Like consistency, loyalty, actually giving a fuck about the other person's feelings. There are better, cooler people out there for you. Who would be willing to work with you through your problems. Who actually love you back." The couple exchange another knowing look. Dragonfly goes for round three of the sighs and pulls her hand away.

      "I love you guys, and I know you love me, but not in the same way that you love each other-"

      "That's not true," Aradia interrupts, firmly.

      "It's fine. I'm glad you guys have each other-"

      "No, really, we've actually been thinking-" The Bee Guy puts a gentle hand on her shoulder.

      "-I just wish me and Dave had that, and I love being with you guys-"

      "Seriously, Dragonfly, listen-"

      "-but being around you sometimes just fills me with so much yearning, and it hurts to know that I'll never have anything like that-"

      "You dense motherfucker," The Bee Guy raises his voice, but quickly backtracks when he sees the hurt on Dragonfly's face. Emotion control is hard when you're tripping. "Sorry, I didn't mean that, but we're trying to tell you something here. Dave, I really hate to say it, but he doesn't..." He hesitates, and goes on, much more gently. "He doesn't love you, and he doesn't treat you right, and you know that. You have some kind of sick fetish for people that treat you like shit. You really gotta work on that, by the way."

      "What he's trying to say," Aradia puts a hand on Dragonfly's other shoulder. "Is that we want to be with you. Like, officially. For more than just sex. We can all be a family, and you can take the office, or even share our bedroom." She walks her fingers across Dragonfly's arm.

      "What?" After opening up about her tumultuous relationship, are they trying to help or sabotage? She doesn't need her life to be any more complicated than it already is. 

      After a few moments of stunned silence, Aradia continues. "You can help us with the business, and you know way more people than we do so you can _really_ help our other business. And we'll help you get sober-"

      "You want me to sell your drugs, but also get sober? What is this really about? What gives you the right to say _I_ need help? Are you trying to make me your drug mule, or force me into a relationship with you to get me off the shit?" Dragonfly leans away, crossing her arms and glaring. Confused silence blankets the air.

      "You say you want what we have, and we're offering it to you. We want that with you, too, why are you rejecting it?" The Bee Guy asks harshly. Dragonfly continues to narrow her eyes at them suspiciously.

      "We have no ill intentions, there's nothing to read between the lines. We just want to be with you. You balance us out and fit in really well is all. It's just something to think about, you don't have to make a decision anytime soon. We were hoping to present it in a better way than this, but," Aradia laughs a bit, looking at Dragonfly in uncertainty.

      The more she thinks about it, the more tempting an offer it becomes. If they're serious and aren't scheming about something, that is. Two partners who want to live with her, help her, love her. Straight out of a fairy tale, set in a beautiful castle and everything. Too good to be true, is what it is. They decide to forego the usual sexual activities, in favor of star gazing. Aradia's hand automatically wraps around Dragonfly's fingers, but she pulls back in respect of giving her space.

      There's something wrong, and the feeling itches under Dragonfly's skin uncomfortably. She isn't sure what their motive is, and it hurts that her closest friends might have turned on her. She wants them, she wants all that they're offering, but it has to be a lie. To the very core of her being, she knows that she is unlovable. If she were to officially join their family, she'd wreck the beautiful lives they've built for themselves, and they all know it. Then she realizes, with a moment of clarity, that of course these otherworldly star beings aren't manipulating her; they're high as shit. "Can you drive me to the Hotel?" She asks quietly.

      "We're not going to be complacent in that shit. It's not good for you. We'll take you home, though," The Bee Guy says, and Aradia agrees. Dragonfly shakes her head morosely. With a heavy heart, she slowly walks through the house as if for the last time. She reluctantly endures a round of hugs, apologies, and sentiments, not quite present.

      She wants to see Dave. As he doesn't have a phone or a car, the easiest way to get to him is... unpleasant. A mixture of emotions tangle inside her, and while she could just call a cab, old habits die hard. Sitting on the curb outside the front gate, she dials the Joker's number. At the sound of his voice, all of her confusing feelings are overpowered with ones that are more familiar and manageable; anger, disgust, hatred. While she waits, she lets her head rest on her knees and rocks a bit, shivering against the cold. For a moment, she thinks about her sister's house, how warm it always is.

      The old VW bus eventually comes clanking down the street, and the Joker immediately suction cups her face with his mouth. She shoves him away and attempts to convince him to drive down the street just a little. She can hardly get a word out without his tongue interrupting her. He ignores her, instead slipping his hands under her shirt. As he puts the seats down in the back to make a bed, she again tries to talk him into moving somewhere else. He harshly drags her into the back and throws her onto her back, climbs on top of her. Thankfully, there are no windows in the back. He fucks her, biting and bruising and choking, slobbering like an animal, eyes rolled back in his head as if possessed. Disgust crawls up her spine. She lays unmoving, letting her body go numb, and her mind wander.

      There are so many different ways she could have cut it off before it got violent; walked away the first time he touched her when she said no, when he ignored their safe word, smelled the danger on his skin when she first got close. She knew his reputation, had heard horror stories of what he's done, so why did she approach him in the first place? All of those red flags that she ignored. Maybe they even enticed her. He liked her, and she liked the rush. He was almost nice to her at first. But it got complicated when she met Dave. The Joker wouldn't let her go, and why had she let him trap her? Was it purely for the sex? Rough and quick and dirty is fun, but Dave is so gentle and soft, she never wants to draw blood or slam him against a wall. With the Joker, however, she can focus all of her anger and chaotic energy into digging her nails deep into his skin and slamming her hips down on him so hard he flinches. It's a good way to release pent up rage.

      Or is it simply because she's weak and _can't_ get away? She's pathetic. Maybe it really _is_ the free drugs. According to The Bee Guy, it's because she has a fetish for being treated badly, but she gets no pleasure out of either of these men. Now that Dave is at the Hotel, there's risk that he'll find out about them, and Dragonfly not-so-secretly hopes he does. There's rarely any emotion from him, no reaction to anything - maybe this is what will spark something. Is that really so wrong, wanting attention from your boyfriend? There's nothing Dave could do, no amount of ignoring or pushing her away, that she doesn't deserve.

      If only she could be with Aradia and The Bee Guy.

      Here she is, though, fucking the guy they despise right in front of their house, stuck in a spiral of the same old thoughts. He pulls out of her and squeezes her cheeks to give her one last kiss, then crawls into the front seat. She stays where she is, legs spread, sinking into the hole burning through her chest. A bag of mushroom caps is thrown at her feet. She picks it up with her toes and rolls them between her fingers as the Joker begins to drive, then lets them fall to her side. The hole grows bigger, and she sinks deeper, riding on the waves of the swaying van, sinking and sinking. This is all there is, all there has ever been, and all there will be. It's all she is - a black hole that sucks everything in and turns it into absolute nothingness.

      When they get to the Hotel, the Joker gets out without saying anything, and she lies there. Her skin has grown into the plastic of the seats, the hole connecting all the way to the ground. Dave is up there. He's soft and just as broken as her, just as scared. So she peels herself off the bed, wipes herself on the Joker's discarded shirt in the front seat. The Joker flicks his tongue at her as she passes, and even though she can't see it, she can feel his eyes molesting her. Dave groans at her sleepily as he answers the door, slipping those stupid glasses over his eyes. Her face won't let her contort it into a smile, so she shuffles a few inches closer and rests her head on his chest.

      They crawl onto the deflated air mattress and underneath his sleeping bag that smells like cigarettes. She buries her face in his neck, and he doesn't push away. "I just want to be loved," she whispers. And he whispers back to be quiet and go to sleep, to not be so naive. That love is a lie weak people believe in to make themselves feel better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit, this whole thing started out as a Davekat fic, and Terezi was just going to be a subplot. But I have so much for her that it's just become its own thing. I possibly even like her story more than Dave's?


	4. Black Muddy River

_[When the last rose of summer pricks my finger,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9few40vekpw) _

_And the hot sun chills me to the bone,_

_When I can't hear the song for the singer,_

_And I can't tell my pillow from a stone,_

 

_I will walk alone by the black muddy river,_

_And sing me a song of my own._

_I will walk alone by the black muddy river,_

_And sing me a song of my own._

 

_When the last bolt of sunshine hits the mountain,_

_And the stars start to splatter in the sky,_

_When the moon splits the southwest horizon,_

_With the scream of an eagle on the fly,_

 

_I will walk alone by the black muddy river,_

_And listen to the ripples as they moan,_

_I will walk alone by the black muddy river,_

_And sing me a song of my own._

 

 _Black muddy river, r_ _oll on forever,_

_I don't care how deep or wide,_

_If you've got another side,_

_Roll muddy river, r_ _oll muddy river,_

_Black muddy river, roll._

 

_When it seems like the night will last forever,_

_And there's nothing left to do but count the years,_

_When the strings of my heart start to sever,_

_And stones fall from my eyes instead of tears,_

 

_I will walk alone, by the black muddy river,_

_And dream me a dream of my own,_

_I will walk alone, by the black muddy river,_

_And sing me a song of my own._

_Sing me a song of my own._

_And sing me a song of my own._

 

 

 

    Winter is a bitter season, especially for the junkie. Synthetic weed is passed around more often, which feels virtually indistinguishable from the real stuff, but it gives Dragonfly insomnia. Or maybe that's just the depression. Coke is good for keeping warm at the weekly drum circles with her new favorite friend molly. Crack smells too much like burning hair to her sensitive nose, and meth dealers smell even worse, so she avoids them both. Heroine has been all too easy to come across lately; it's the main dish on the Joker's menu of homemade concoctions. Up until just before Christmas, she had been able to resist the temptations for it, both because she didn't have much desire or money. Now, it's just another routine, another expense added to the grocery list.

      While Aradia and The Bee Guy grow their own mushrooms, they sometimes go to a nearby cow field for date night. Underneath the shining moonlight, chasing each other around the morning mist and dew-covered grass, faint mooing in the distance - it's utterly romantic. The fields are owned by a woman in her thirties who inherited her family's farm and has had her own fair share of psychedelic experiences. They met her some years ago at the farmer's market when they set up their booths next to each other. Skylla was happy to let her new friends pick the mushrooms out of her fields in return for a few free treats, as she has less time to make her own nowadays. It's a very healthy business relationship. The couple decides they deserve a relaxing evening of prancing around in the mud looking for morels. Dragonfly would be invited to come with them if she would just answer her phone. They reluctantly go without her, and find that all of the cow patties have already been flipped over and picked clean. Skylla says that Dragonfly came by earlier that week, claiming to be picking for the couple's business. As thanks, they give her a small container of _The Universe_ and don't make a comment when she lets her dog lick a spoonful of it. Dragonfly still doesn't answer her phone.

      She's too busy at the Hotel, socializing with the wrong crowd and getting high. Sometimes she tries to seduce Dave, and occasionally, he'll let her give him a blow job, or finger her for a few minutes. He has erectile dysfunction, which is a major buzzkill. She still remembers the first time she had touched him; he gripped her wrist so hard it hurt, and his face was flushed. With excitement, she thought at the time, but she thinks now it may have been embarrassment. Back then, even though he didn't like her going anywhere below the waistline, he was still willing to take care of her. What ever happened to that, she wonders? What did she do to turn him off so entirely? Was she really just that ugly? On very rare occasions, he's able to keep it up long enough for a little bit of fun, if she presses him enough. And if she presses even further, he'll give her a couple dollars to give him space, and she'll add it to her 'score jar.' It's better than what she does with strangers for a few quick bucks. He eventually leaves for downtown, backpack and guitar in hand. He's never back until late at night, and creeps up the stairs so reticently she misses him nearly every time. She's lucky to have the Joker to slink over to her with his sloppy smile, replacing Dave's spot in her arms so that she's never lonely. He pulls out his needle, slips the ten out of her bra so that she's never sober. He roughly grabs her hand and fixes her arm in the right position to inject it, chokes her with his tongue as she turns into a rag doll. Most of the time, he does it with her, and they sit side by side, slumped over, mouths hanging open to catch flies. It's very romantic. Days go by like this, huddled in the grungy bedroom, worries disappearing with every nod of her head. 

      When she goes back home, she makes sure it's only while her sister is at work. Latula boils over if she sees her for even a second, lecturing and yelling as she paces around Dragonfly's room, picking up her dirty clothes, calling her names, smiting her future. Otherwise, she just watches with judgmental eyes and doesn't say anything at all. Dragonfly isn't sure which one is worse. A pregnancy test and dollar store STI testing kit are discreetly placed on her nightstand, next to a box of condoms. Dragonfly thinks about using any one of them every time she bumps into them reaching for a glass of water. Somehow, it always slips her mind. She tries to find something to do downtown, someone to take her to the Hotel, someone to pay for a bag of poorly dried mushrooms that may or may not still have some feces on them. Most of the money goes towards the Joker, and then all of it when he starts making her pay for the needles they share. Weeks blur together. She continues to ignore phone calls from everyone except those willing to buy a favor from her. 

      One day, when she arrives at the Hotel itching for a fix, there's a congregation in the living room. The Joker sits at the center, on the coffee table, and she stands behind the couch, leaning on it in boredom. The quiet hum of a radio station that's half static plays low against the unusually empty house. As far as she can tell, there's no one here that she knows. Men with dreadlocks and baggy shirts, smelling like patchouli and weed and BO sprawl out on the couches and tabletops. None of them acknowledge her. They rub their faces and tilt their heads in assessment of Dave, standing awkwardly to the side with his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

      The Joker's squinty eyes are serious and intense as he looks at him. That grin crawls up his face, growing into a crooked sneer. "I got a offer for you. You a street kid, you know the silvers and the fluffs?" The two forms of LSD crystals, and the two gangs - if gangs were friendly with each other - for both branches. Every summer on tour, Dave sells for his mysterious fluff buddies. Some of the best acid that's ever been on Lot, and no one knows where he gets it from. He's good at keeping secrets. Everyone watches for his reaction. He nods once, cautiously. "Hows you feel about bein' a part of history?"

      "Depends on what's goin' down," he replies easily.

      "There's a snitch. Been rattin' bros out, both sides, so we're joinin' forces with the fluffs to dust the motherfucker. You in?"

      Dragonfly perks up in interest. To be dusted is worse than death. It takes a lot of acid in its crystal form, a conglomeration of the dust left over in a large amount of many dealer's bags, and some ignorant, expendable moron to blow it in the victim's face. _Millions_ of hits in the eyes and mouth. They're tripping within minutes, and will never get out of it. Walls will always breathe, all lights will shine in colorful fractals, they'll never be able to look in the mirror without falling into a rabbit hole. Life itself will turn into a surrealist painting. It's the guy with a boombox on his shoulder, singing along to its silence as he dances up and down the freeway every day. Or, at least, that's the rumor; very few people have ever actually witnessed it. The Joker is asking if Dave wants to be the expendable moron. After a long moment of seemingly careful consideration, he shakes his head and begins walking backwards towards the staircase.

      "Nah, man, I'm not into all that shit. Thanks for the offer though. Later." He scampers away, and Dragonfly moves to follow him.

      The Joker winds an arm around her waist from behind and pulls her into his chest, stopping her. His wet lips are like a baby nibbling on her neck, and she pushes him away when he bites a little too hard on the bruise he left on her last time. The rest of the men whisper to each other and crack open a few beers. "Who's the snitch?" She asks, breaking out of his arms to snatch a beer off the table. The Joker's chest rumbles as he chuckles darkly.

      "Just some nobody who can't keep his trap shut. Pigs caught him and offered him a deal if he ratted. So now the motherfucker's gotta pay. You don't mess with family. Ain't that right, boys?" The men around him all hold up their cans and say 'hell yeah' in solidarity. He falls into the couch, pulling Dragonfly onto his lap. He rolls a joint on the cushion beside him as he speaks. "Now we just gotta find someone willin' to do the deed." They all look at each other nervously, already thinking up their excuses in case they're the new chosen one. They decide to think on it. 

      The blunt stings her lips when she tokes. The Joker hovers his mouth close to hers and breathes in her exhale, and then they're in the bedroom and suddenly his dick is inside her. She barely even notices that it's happening anymore. Most of the time, he shoots up with her. But, sometimes, he dopes her up until she's drooping and hazy. Then he hovers over her, and for a while, there's just huffs of his breath on her face, and the bed quivering beneath her. Her hands lay heavy at her sides. She wouldn't move them even if she wanted to. The angry passion has devolved into animalistic hip thrusts and nothing more. Doesn't matter, it's not like it's any different from usual.  

      Finding someone new to buy from is impossible. Since he's the top dog, he has major control of everyone who sells and who they sell to. Which excludes her. Everyone knows her, including those she's never met. Old friends avoid her, terrified of the lanky guy shadowing her. Even when she's sick, which is often, she pays him a visit. Her body aches, rashes break out in various places. A small cold nearly puts her in the hospital. A few times she has been too tired, or too depressed to leave the house at all. Those days, she curls up in the fetal position, sweating and shivering, throwing up and shitting her brains out. Fighting off threats of cool washcloths and medicine from an annoying sister. The only thing that will stop it, stop everything from hurting so much, is more. She will find a way to that peeling house on a cul-de-sac, one way or another. Sniffling, vomiting, sweating, she'll stagger into the cluttered, dim dungeon of a bedroom, and she'll end up on the bed with springs that press into her back. She'll endure his rank breath blanketing her face, the careless panting, the weird noises and smells that come out of his mouth. It's the only way she can get a fix now.

      When she arrives at the Hotel one night and the Joker isn't home for once, she really has no choice. His personal stash is completely unguarded. There is no forethought, no precautions. Pure impulse guides her feet to the bedside table, her hands to rummage in the top drawer. A needle pricks her finger. Next to them, there's a tube with a small bulb at the bottom, which she stashes in her purse. In a tin box, there are several handfuls of small baggies that feel familiar between her fingers. They follow the pipe. Excitement pulls her lips into a grin as she stands, imagining the rest of her afternoon. Somewhere no one will bother her, where she can sit alone and do as much as she wants without having to do absolutely anything. There is always so much _something_ going on, she can never let herself go completely. It's never quite enough.

      She takes a step forward, and bumps into a skinny body. He grows impossibly, looming so tall she has to crane her neck all the way back to face him. His silhouette burns on the otherwise blank canvas of her eyes. Hot anger radiates from him, and instinctively, she freezes. A hand whips out and tangles in her hair, the other locks against her chest and slams her into the wall, knocking her cane out of her hand. Spit sprinkles her face as he shouts at her, calls her a pathetic whore, a worthless bitch, yells at her to stop whimpering. For a few moments, she's paralyzed. It's not the first time she's been in this situation, cowering in terror and soon to leave with a shiny new black eye. Fear seems pointless now, when she doesn't much care what happens to her. After taking a deep breath against the searing adrenaline coursing through her body and holding it, she releases it in a scream, _"Shut the fuck up!"_ Her palms push against his chest uselessly. Beating on him with her fists earns only a wordless roar. He releases her momentarily to slam his hands on either side of her head. The bang reverberates through her skull, but doesn't impede her from trying to duck under his arm. Easily, he grabs her and pins her wrists against the wall.

      "Yo! The fuck is going on here?" Dave's familiar voice sounds from the doorway. This is it, isn't it? The moment she's been yearning for. Her knight has finally come to save her.

      "Bitch stole my shit," The Joker sneers, voice foul with contempt so sour it curls her nose hairs. Of course Dave decided to wait until now, when it's too late to be saved. When she's too far gone. 

      "Stop fucking breathing on me all the goddamn time!" She raises her knee to slam it in the Joker's crotch in fury. He catches her leg and crushes it against the wall so that he can wrangle the purse from her.

      "Alright, dude, let her go. She's my girl, I'll take care of her." The Joker laughs manically as he tugs the bag over her head and she continues to wriggle to get free. 

      "You ain't never take care a her, that's why she been hoppin' on this dick more than yours. I'll take care of her, shut the door behind ya. Or not, I can put on a good show." The hand trapping her wrists is wrenched away, and she tumbles forward as the Joker is pulled back. She throws herself at him, clawing at his face.

      Dave hooks an arm around her middle, yanks her away, and tries to pull her from the room. "Dude, seriously?" He tugs on her as she holds onto the door frame, kicking to get free of him.

     "You're just as bad as him! You hurt me even more, you asshole!" Her elbow is sharp enough to crack his nose when she thrusts it at his face. He drops her to the floor, catching the blood dripping down his chin in his palms. "You knew, you _knew!_ You let it happen the whole time, and you didn't even care. You never care, you never did, and you never will! You knew what was going on!" She slaps at his shins feebly, continuing to accuse him.

      "What the hell are you talking about?" He asks incredulously. As if all the problems in their relationship have been Dragonfly's delusions, as if he didn't ignore the way the Joker leers at her, because he's afraid of being kicked out and living on the street. He's even more of a selfish cunt than she is. 

      "Hey, now, you're the one that kept comin' around. No worries baby, I'll start comin' to you. I'll always find my way back to you," The Joker threatens. He bends to grab at her, but Dave steps over her to put himself between her and the Joker. They stand almost nose-to-nose and she hears manly grunting as they pounce on each other. She crawls around the scuffle and snatches her bag, hugging it to her chest, and feels around for her cane.

      While they're distracted, she stands on wobbly legs. People shove her into the wall as they shoulder past her, shouting and joining the brawl. It's another familiar fantasy, men fighting over her. It doesn't quite bring her the same pleasure she always imagined it would. She flounders out the front door, trips down the steps. It happened so fast, she hardly knows what's going on. Why Dave would intervene at all, why she did it in the first place, how she even got there. One thing she does know, however, is that she still has her purse. Static builds in her mind as she tightens her jackets around herself and shuffles down the sidewalk, away from the chaotic Hotel. The Bee Guy answers the phone after two and a half rings, and listens to her heavy sobbing for a few moments before asking where she is. Handling those two is a feat she _knows_ she doesn't have the strength to withstand sober.

      In the shadows between street lamps, she pulls out the pipe, the spoon she always keeps on her in case of an emergency. She knew it might happen at anytime. She sits on the ground, pulls out her lighter, and flicks it a few times. Sparks fly out from it, and she keeps going until it burns her finger and still hasn't caught a flame. Snot drips into her mouth as she screams and chucks the lighter into the street. With the spoon still in her hand, she digs her nails into her hairline, clenching up her entire body. Resigned, she releases, tosses it back into her purse, and cries while she waits.

      Questions about what's going on, where she's been, why she hasn't been answering their calls spill from Aradia and The Bee Guy. Dragonfly presses her face into the sandy crevice of the backseat, resting her bag to her ear to block them out. They hardly give her room to answer. Since she doesn't feel like using words, she groans loudly and flails her limbs around, kicking at the door. The whole car totters with her tantrum. "Alright, we get it, quit your shitfit! We're taking you home. Unless you want to come back with us?" The Bee Guy offers as they pull out of the neighborhood.

      "Yeah, just let me pack a bag. I can't stay there anymore. Not like this..." She checks out after that, willing her consciousness into the abyss. It swallows her away until there's only the swaying of the car, and the feeling of shifting on the seat when they make a turn. An eternity later, everything stills. They sit in Latula's driveway, and she gradually forces herself to sit up. Her skin vibrates despite the mild air, her limbs are jittery, and her mind is scattered. The mood swings from throughout the day, the uppers and downers she's consumed, and panic attacks she's endured have caught up with her; she wants nothing more than to lie down somewhere and sleep forever. Maybe she should just wait until tomorrow to pack a bag. She knows if she waits, she'll never come back. 

      She shoves the key into the front door of her sister's house. Misses, tries again. And again, and once more. God, her head hurts. With both hands and her face leaned in close, she just almost gets it in - only to have it ripped away from her entirely. A stiff sister with a mask of fury glares down at her. It's the second time today she has been dwarfed by someone else's resentment for her. She glides under her sister's arm with her head down, dragging her feet towards her bedroom. Latula is on her heels, following with hands on her hips. "I haven't seen you in days and when you finally come home, you're fucked up? Do you know how disrespectful that is?" She stalks her down the hallway close enough to bump against Dragonfly when she pauses.

      "It's more of a hangover." Latula runs over her mumbling with more nagging.

      "How many times are we going to go through the same shit before you get tired of it, huh? When are you going to change, Dragonfly? Fucking look at me!"

      "Ableist," Dragonfly spits and promptly trips, crashing to the carpet. Rug burn stings her palms.

      "What are you on?" Latula asks, hovering over her. Dragonfly rolls onto her back and sprawls her arms out, gritting her teeth together. "Hey, answer me." She nudges her rib cage.

      Drunk, probably, Latula thinks. But if she's been on a bender it could be benzos, coke, ecstasy. In actuality, this has simply become Dragonfly's default state; groggy, faltering, slurred. Like always, instead of putting her foot down, Latula hooks her under the armpits and drags her to her bedroom. Her body is completely limp until she attempts to heft her into the bed. She wiggles out of her grasp and crawls along the floor to the closet. Latula sits on the bed and watches her pull out a duffel bag. "Girl, come on, tell me what you took or I'm just going to drive you to the hospital under the assumption that you've overdosed." Dragonfly walks on her knees over to the pile of folded laundry on the bed and mutters something. "What?" Latula leans in close enough to smell the layers of grime on her skin that have built up after days of not showering. 

      "Fucking nothing!" Dragonfly shouts, weakly shoving at the older's face. Latula's mouth twists disapprovingly and she leaves the room, propelled by the force of her shaking head. Dragonfly dumps her purse out onto the floor and feels for the contents, picking and choosing what she'll take with her. Chapstick, a few loose bills, her last cigarette. Forgoing the balls of gum wrappers and hair ties. She was considering chopping her hair off anyways, now that it's turned a gray-green.

      There's a gasp in the doorway, and her name is whispered in dismay. Of course Latula's known about her younger sibling's substance abuse problems, but this is beyond what she ever thought could happen. What even _is_ that? Her eyes dart between the bags of black sludge, the pipe, and this thing that has replaced her baby sister. She's now feral and mangy, hardly even human. "Stop staring!" Dragonfly yells, throwing a pair of balled up socks in her direction. They fly past her, into the hallway. Latula continues to gape, watching her scoop up the pile of baggies and shove them back into her purse. The purse she got when she was prancing around the country last summer, to replace the one that Latula got for her birthday. A black net of fury is cast over her vision.

      "Get out of my house. I don't care where you go or what you do. You're lost and I'm not going to help you find your way at the cost of my own sanity. Don't come back until you've got your shit together, not a moment sooner. No more bullshit promises about getting better on your own," Latula says calmly. 

      "What the fuck do you think I'm doing? I can't stand you- you-" Dragonfly pulls at her hair in frustration. "You're _suffocating!_ I'd rather live in a fucking gutter, sleep in my own piss than live with you."

      Tense silence fills the bedroom. Latula watches a stranger shove fistfuls of clothes into a duffel bag, wondering where her sister went. Memories of their childhood together float through her mind, and she tries to pinpoint where it went wrong. They have two parents who have always taken care of them, a stable home with support and unconditional love. It was when they moved here from New York. She went downtown that one day and met those losers playing hacky sack, her new friends. She hadn't had very many friends up there, so she was willing to do anything to fit in. Which included smoking and drinking and staying out late. She came home talking about the "cool cats" who introduced her to some old band that was _so_ cool. Just after that, Dragonfly had dropped out of high school, started wearing strange clothes, and brought home dirty kids with pockets full of buds. That was the day her sister was stolen, and replaced by this haggard junkie stumbling over herself. Dragonfly flies out of the room with her things, and for the first time, Latula doesn't try to stop her.

      Dragonfly slams the car door behind her. Aradia asks, "Is your sister upset that you're staying with us?"

      "No. Let's just go. Can I borrow a lighter?" The smoke of her last cigarette curdles around her, masking her hand as she slips the lighter into her bag. She rests her hand on top of it, letting her head vibrate against the cool window. 

      When they pull up to the cute house on the corner, Aradia says, "We haven't put sheets on the futon yet-"

       "Don't care, I'm tired. Night." With the duffel bag thrown over her shoulder and purse clutched tightly to her chest, Dragonfly throws the gate open, walks up the steps and through the front door, leaving them behind. The desk is still in the office, and the shelves. Streamers of twine still drape across the room, but now there's a path cleared from the doorway to the bed. Wasting no time, she holds the pipe to her lips and sits back.

      Ten minutes and several bags later, heavy tranquility fills her limbs. It wraps her in a blanket, soothes her wounds, strangles all the fussy anxieties. Latula's voice trails out of her mind, the Joker's spit dissipates from her skin, Dave's rejections float far out of reach. There's nothing in this reality but peace. Much better than the convoluted mess of perceptions from mushrooms. Between rays of glowing contentment, she cracks her eyes open to examine the fungi around her. Instead, Aradia's face fills her field of vision, creased with concern. She lets her lids close again, smoothing out the crinkles. "We should call an ambulance, look at this. She's smoked like ten bags." Aradia cups Dragonfly's cheeks and looks desperately at The Bee Guy, who paces with his hands interlaced behind his head.

      "We can just drive her to the hospital, we don't want anyone coming here."

      _"Sollux!_ She could be dying." He scoffs and rolls his eyes.

      _"Aradia_. She probably smokes ten bags every night, what do you think she's been doing all this time? It'll be cheaper and easier if we drive her. They'll baker act her for a few days and maybe it'll be a wake up call. Let's just take her ourselves. She'll be fine." Aradia looks up at him in uncertainty. Dragonfly grumbles and lifts her hand, watches it slowly drift back down, and nods away again.

      "I don't know if we can do this..." They look at each other again.

      The journey to the hospital is one that Draongfly's barely a part of. It's easy enough to walk her inside, The Bee Guy half dragging her. His fingers running lightly up and down her arm as they sit in the waiting room is borderline orgasmic. To have him on one side and Aradia on the other, massaging her hand - it feels right, better than anything she has ever experienced before. Better than the stuff sticking to her lungs in this moment ever has. She tries to tell them this, but her tongue is too heavy to move, and her chin keeps sinking back down to her chest. It's easier to swim in it than to resist. The Bee Guy holds her hair back as she vomits into a trashcan before they can get a room, twisting his mouth in disgust. Even that feels warm and comforting coming out of her, like all of the negativity is being expelled from her gut. Throughout the night, she's calm and drowsy, until she eventually falls asleep.

      In the morning she wakes infuriatingly sober, with her throat burning and body aching. She tears away the IV's and finger clamp, throws her breakfast tray onto the floor, scratches one of the doctors that tries to restrain her and throws a punch at the other one. No one can even speak over her belligerent shouting. At the risk of hurting more staff, nurses chase her down the hallway, leaping over the tables that she knocks to the floor, until she runs face-first into an open door. In the few moments of repose, Aradia bends next to her. Dragonfly turns away from the fingers reaching out to touch her hair, curling into herself. 

      Seventy four hours and an examination later, Dragonfly bounces her leg as she waits in the lobby to be released. The doctors inform Aradia and The Bee Guy that she should be institutionalized, and give them resources to the clinic on the beach. Since she refuses to be voluntarily committed, they'll have to go to court. She's silent after that, keeping her mouth glued shut no matter how hard they try to get her to talk on the ride back home. All she wants is to crawl back into that comfortable womb of safety, and nothing else matters. Before the car comes to a complete stop, she fumbles onto the asphalt, marches into her room, and plunges her hand into her purse on the desk. The switch flips when she comes up empty, and she's screaming again, as if she's been possessed by the ghost of addiction itself. It grates on Aradia's ear drums until she balls her fists over her ears and absconds into their bedroom. The Bee Guy is too preoccupied with arguing to notice her escape.

      "We're trying to help you, god dammit! You are _so_ -" 

      "I don't fucking need help! I need my fucking dope, give it back!" Frazzled, Dragonfly feels along the small round dining table for something to throw. It's frustratingly free of clutter, except for the empty paper towel holder. It pings lightly against the tile. 

      "You can't do that shit in our house. If you refuse to get your shit together, you can't stay here-"

      "You're just like my fucking sister, fucking hypocrite. Kick me out, then, I'm gonna get high no matter what. Not the first time I've had to live under a fucking bridge." They face each other in mutual disdain and defiance. Aradia pops the bubble of tension with a single bag of white powder thrown at Dragonfly's chest. She crosses her arms and watches Dragonfly pick it up, face tilted away from both of them. The Bee Guy turns to his girlfriend in disbelief.

      "She's going to do it regardless. She's safer here."

      "But-" She gives him a look, and he presses his lips together.

      "Only one?" Dragonfly asks.

      "Yeah. Only one. Take it or get out." Dragonfly wavers for a moment, mildly shocked. Aradia is the only person in her entire life that has never threatened her, been angry with her or sick of her. There has never been a line with her, but apparently Dragonfly still found a way to cross it. She's suddenly exhausted. For now, she decides to settle for even just a small halo of serenity, and shuffles away to her sanctuary.

      The Bee Guy crosses his arms and turns to Aradia. "Explain." She steps in close and keeps her voice low.

      "We'll kidnap her and take her to the woods where she can't get anything. The only way we can get her in the car with us is if we say we're taking her to that concert next month, and she knows she can score anything her little heart desires on Lot."

      "So, what, you want to deal with this shit for a whole _month?_ And then listen to her scream and throw herself on the ground in the middle of the woods? Why don't we just go to court, get her involuntarily committed?"

      "I'd rather try it ourselves first than involving other people. It's not our place, anyways." He scoffs in disbelief, pacing away, and then back to her again.

      "Oh, but it's totally our place to kidnap her, right. She's going to pick through the entire house, you know. She's going to steal shit. She's going to go out on the street for more. She's going to do whatever the fuck she wants. And what if we kill her?" 

      "We won't kill her! It's not my first rodeo kidnapping someone, you know. Until then, we baby proof the house, stash anything important and valuable. We can be patient, and remind her of what life's really about it, I mean all she really needs is a break. She's hardly talked to us at all these last few months; if we let her go, she'll never come back."

      "She's not our responsibility, you know. She's not  _your_  responsibility." She sighs, closing her eyes and clenching her jaw. He means well. He loves her, and he's trying to help her. If she can't even practice patience with him, it will never work with Dragonfly. With another sigh, she looks up at him.

      "But we have to _try._ Right?" 

      "Why are you so dead set on helping her? I get that you guys have been friends since you were kids, but at what point is it enough?" She thinks on it for a moment, chewing her lip.

      "Honestly, I don't know. I love her, and it hurts to see her struggling when I know her potential. She's one of the good ones, it's just all buried underneath pain. We  _have_ to at least try. Otherwise we'd just be doing the same shit we always do. Work, garden, paint, trip." He jerks his head back in offense.

      "What are you saying? We built this life together, it's what you always dreamed of. I thought-"

      "It's beautiful! I love it. I  _love_ my life, and I love that I share it with you," she quickly assures, and clasps both his arms in her hands, brushes her thumbs over his cheeks. "I want nothing more than to create a little utopia I'll enjoy dying in, knowing it was a work of love. You have to know that. I didn't mean anything bad, I'm sorry. I'm just saying it's a new adventure for all of us. We can benefit from her growth, too." He rests his hands on her hips with a sigh. "We can't give up on her after only a few days, Bee. She's drowning in a constant high and if we get over it, she'll let us help her, I'm sure of it."

      "And by help her-"

     "Rehab. But we have to get through to her first. And if she never puts in any effort after that..." She shrugs, looking at him hopefully. Her endless optimism and empathy melts his resolve. It's an undertaking she can't do on her own, and if it'll make her happy, he can't resist.

      "We both know how this shit usually ends, so just... don't beat yourself up if she doesn't immediately recover one hundred percent and we all become a normal, healthy, happy family. That might not be possible. You know that, right?" 

      "I'm going into it with zero expectations." She smiles a bit.

      "You've been spending too much time with Karkat. At least he has the sense to be bitter about people's issues he insists on fixing." He smiles back, tiredly, and kisses her forehead.

      In the back of the house, Dragonfly is completely oblivious to their scheming. She finds an extra bag that fell under the futon, and adds it to the pipe. The insufficient high itches inside her, pushes her to her feet. There's more somewhere in this goddamn house, and if she can't find it here, she'll find it somewhere. Being a woman makes it all too easy to convince men to give her what she wants, and she isn't afraid to whisper a few white lies to aid her. With Spring comes more concerts. More concerts means more drugs. And when tour rolls around, the party will _really_ get started. At least she has something to look forward to for once in her life.


	5. Stella Blue

_[All the years](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rvBd8bXHngE) [ combi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rvBd8bXHngE)[ne](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rvBd8bXHngE) _

_They melt into a dream_

_A broken angel sings_

_From a guitar_

_In the end there's just a song_

_Comes crying up the mind_

_Through all the broken dreams_

_And vanished years_

_Stella Blue_

_When all the cards are down_

_There's nothing left to see_

_There's just the pavement left_

_And broken dreams_

_In the end there's still that song_

_Comes crying like the wind_

_Down every lonely street_

_That's ever been_

_Stella Blue_

_I've stayed in every blue-light cheap hotel_

_Can't win for trying_

_Dust off those rusty strings just_

_One more time_

_Gonna make em shine_

_It all rolls into one_

_And nothing comes for free_

_There's nothing you can hold_

_For very long_

_And when you hear that song_

_Come crying like the wind_

_It seems like all this life_

_Was just a dream_

_Stella Blue_

 

      Dave has the Joker straddled between his legs and pounds at his ugly face with his fists. Blood spurts onto his boxers and white t-shirt, speckling his cheeks. The Joker tugs on his shirt and arms, bucks around wildly to knock off his aggressor, but Dave holds fast. From the corner of his eye, he sees Dragonfly scuttle out of the room. Someone swears loudly, and before he can turn, his vision blackens, a throb rolls down his spine, and he finds himself draped onto the floor. A large hand seizes his throat and he's shoved into the legs of three men.

      He looks up at them, the fluffs, the ones that are supposed to be on _his_ side. Even if they knew who he was on the scene, they wouldn't stop. Everyone needs some way to vent; that, at least, he understands. Shining brass knuckles and a sneer linger above him. Just as they swing down to crush his face, he rolls out of the way and onto his feet, standing in a corner. A crowbar slams into his left side, a bat comes at him from the right. Even as he doubles over from the blow, he catches the bat and jerks it free. He slams the end of it into the side of the guy's head. When he falls on his ass, Dave leaps over him and into the hallway. Fingers grasp and brush him as he flees.

      All he needs is his bag and guitar, then he'll jump out the window if he has to. As he puts his hand on the railing, looking up the dark staircase, a figure stares down at him. The Joker extends his arm in front of him, flips his thumb down to the floor, and then rakes it across his throat. In the moment it takes Dave to glance over his shoulder at the two men behind him and back up, the Joker disappears.

      With what little room there is, Dave whirls around, setting his feet apart and bending a bit low. Years of brawling in his own home has taught him how to fight. Never so many at once, but they've obviously had no training, and that doesn't get you very far against a professional. Though he's already weakened, Dave swings the bat into the hands holding the crowbar, crushing them, at the same time that he kicks the other in the stomach. The brass knuckles manage to graze his chin before the guy flops to the floor, sending his glasses tumbling to the floor. Dave bashes the bat into his back a few times, as hard as he can, and scoops the glasses up again. Priorities. That's two down, enough to sneak back up to his room to grab his stuff and bolt. While Brass Knuckles struggles to his feet, Dave holds the bat up to swing at Crowbar, and takes a few steps forward. The back of his neck tingles with anticipation of an attack from the Joker.

      Crowbar cradles his injured hand to his chest, and uses the other to swing his weapon around in circles. He lifts it above his head. With enough force, the end of it could penetrate right through Dave's skull. He glances to his other side to check on Brass Knuckles. His fists are up again, and beside him is the first guy that he stole the bat from. All three of them creep towards him, chuckling and spitting. They jeer at him, trying to distract and antagonize him. He shuffles back until his heel bumps into the bottom step of the staircase and he stumbles onto his back. His mind races to calculate their next moves, how he'll protect himself and retaliate, escape.

      Before he can scramble back to his feet, he sees the Joker glaring down at him with his guitar held above him. In his confusion, Dave simply stares at it. It crashes over his head and rains wooden splinters all around him. The only thing protecting his eyes is his glasses, and even those shatter as all four of them descend on him at once, kicking him anywhere they can reach. A few kicks get him in the face, then he curls into himself, holding his breath against the feet stomping on his side and legs. Sounds of snapping strings twang around him as the Joker continues to beat the instrument against the staircase railing. A voice screams in his head to push them away, beg them to stop - but he only stays tensed to protect the important parts, and waits until they give him a chance to breathe. The Joker grabs a fistful of his hair and drags him through the living room. Through the blood drizzling into his eyes, Dave sees Bull cowering on the couch, and a few others shifting their eyes away nervously. The three other men snatch the pack of beer off the table, and collect empty bottles. Dave weakly flails a bit without much effort, lifting onto his feet as much as he can to gain some control.

      The Joker throws the door open then tosses him out onto the porch, throwing the skeleton of his broken glasses to the ground in finality. Everyone cheers as he slides across the wood and down the steps head-first, stopping himself on his hands. He tries to lift himself on all fours, barely succeeding before The Joker stomps on his back. The edge of the bottom step crushes against his chest painfully. It's almost nostalgic, like seeing dear old daddy for the first time in a while. The Joker flips him over, picks him up by the front of his shirt and touches his gnarled nose to Dave's. The three men frame him, hollering and dumping beer on themselves, waggling their tongues in the air. "Get his ass!" They encourage.

      Breath that smells like rotting food and alcohol brushes Dave's lips as The Joker threatens, "I swear to motherfuckin' Jesus in all his miraculous ways, I will hunt down that bitch of yours and fuck her to death. Then I'll make you eat her out all the way to her womb and when you spew, I'll make you eat _that_. You better watch your fuckin' back; we've got our eyes on you now, motherfucker." Bloody spittle sprinkles across Dave's face, and he's hurled into the driveway.

      They fire the bottles and full beer cans at him, chasing him to the edge of the yard, and into the cul-de-sac. Yelling and cursing at him until he stumbles away, nearly crawling, cradling his torso with both of his arms. "Don't fuck with family! We ain't nothin' to fuck with, motherfucker!" They scream, flexing their arms and high-fiving. The Joker stands in front of them, watching Dave half-crawl away into the night with his empty, squinted eyes. Already, his thoughts have shifted to his next plan, and he turns back to the house.

     Blood trickles down Dave's face in thick streams, sticks in his eyelashes and drips into the corner of his mouth. He dry heaves into a bush, for once thankful that he's been too broke to eat much and too depressed to play downtown for the last few days. When he picks his hand up to wipe his mouth, there's dog shit on it. He coughs and gags a few more times, spitting out bloody bile, then falls onto his back on the cold ground. Adrenaline pushes away the worst of the aching for now. Going to the hospital is out of the question, but something has to be done about his injuries. He lays in the soggy dirt, wheezing shallowly at the dizzying night sky. If he had stayed in contact with Dad after Christmas, he'd be able to call him. As it is, he can't stand the idea of having to apologize again, to face the same mistakes and disappointment. Not that he should even need _saving._ How pathetic. Maybe he can go back to his dad's, try to sneak in and use the first aid kit. He might get a smackdown for letting himself get bested in a fight, it might even kill him. At least there's a first aid kit, fresh clothes, and a bed. The possibility of death is just a bonus. The more he winds down now, the more the endorphins dissipate. To keep from sinking into the pain completely, he slowly pushes himself up, wincing.

      It's a long walk, made even longer by nausea and soreness and the exhaustion of collapsing blood pressure. He holds up his thumb whenever a car goes by, but no one wants to pick up a stumbling, injured man. His body drags him down, begging for a rest. On his way to the apartment, underneath a streetlamp, a guy sits on a bench slumped over his phone. Dave wavers in front of him. "Hey man, you think I could get a ride somewhere? It's not far." The bewildered man glances around.

      "Uhh, do you need help? Should I call an ambulance?" Dave shakes his head and tries to chuckle. It comes out as a strained huff instead.

      "Nah, can't afford that shit in this economy. Can you just give me a ride to my house?"

      "I'm waiting for someone to pick me up. I can get them to take you to the hospital, that's a lot of blood-"

      "No. It's like a mile from here, can't your friend just drop me off?"

      He finally agrees, and they sit beside each other in the wane glow of the streetlamp. "Are you in a gang?" Dave gives him a side-eye glare.

      "Ain't no gangs in this town, dude. I just got jumped."

      "Why don't you want to go to the hospital, then?"

      "Like I said - can't afford it." The guy continues to pester Dave until he snaps at him in irritation to shut the fuck up. The friend arrives and begins another interrogation, but the guy quickly tells him to be quiet. If it's an awkward drive, Dave doesn't notice; he's trying desperately to keep himself awake. With a dry corner of his shirt, he wipes away the blood smeared on the inside handle of the door. He thanks them as they pull into the parking lot, and shuts the door on their response. 

      The AC chills him when he enters the building, just as empty and smelly as he remembers. It takes a long time to climb the stairs, and then he stands outside the front door, leaning against the wall. The more he thinks about it, the harder it will be. He tries the knob. It's locked. Knuckles poised over the door, he hesitates, then knocks before he can stop himself. No answer. With a heavy sigh and a swear between his teeth, he slides down the wall. He rests his elbows on his knees and rubs his hands over his face, clenching his teeth together. It's hard to think when his body wants to shut down. He can't let that happen, especially not in the hallway of drug dealers and kleptomaniacs; he'd likely wake up completely naked.

      When he goes to stand and knock again, his fingers come down to the crease between the floor and the wall, and he feels a bobby pin. Thank you, dad, for teaching him something useful that for once doesn't involve violence. It was on this very knob that he learned to pick a lock, and it opens within a few moments of aggressive jiggling and prodding. Inside, it's dark except for light from a streetlamp flooding the kitchen. The messy table that should be in the middle of it is gone. He tries to turn on the light, but the switch doesn't work.

      As he descends deeper into the blackness, twitching at every slight noise, he finds only empty rooms. He wonders what happened to his turntables, his computer, all of his posters and CD's. They were all probably left on the street for kids to pick through until garbage day. Any evidence that it had been lived in is gone, except for one thing. And of course it was _this,_ and not something normal like a mug or even a hair tie. The creepy doll with eyes that recorded him as he was growing up sits on the bathroom counter, staring at him. It had seen him masturbating, showering, changing, sleeping, eating. Hardly a breath wasn't captured on film and posted on the internet for horny pedophiles to beat it to. His dad knew he'd come back. Possibly, he could still be here, but more than likely, it's his way of telling Dave he left him behind and doesn't expect to see him again. Once he started growing hair beneath his bellybutton, he was just a burden, only good for a punching bag. He briefly lifts up both of his middle fingers and dunks the puppet into the toilet.

      There's no first aid kit. There's no running water. There are no good memories here. There's also no one to attack him, and he's too exhausted to think of anything else to do. With no backpack to use as a pillow, or wadded up sleeping bag to wrap his arms around, he decides the corner of his old room is as good as anywhere else. Out of habit, he locks the door behind him. He's asleep as soon as he slumps against the wall.

 

      Not a single part of his body is free of agony when he wakes up. It's still dark out, but he doesn't know if it's been only a few hours or a few days. His mind swims, his mouth is dry. Hatred for life and everything in it sharpens the pain. Bitterness wraps its tentacles around all the people he's ever met and everything he's experienced. His dad for ruining him, the Joker for hurting him, Dragonfly for being a selfish burnout. _Especially_ Dragonfly. Mostly, though, he just hates himself.

      The room gradually lightens with the morning, illuminating his bruised body drooped over in the exact same position he fell asleep in. He's too afraid of his sore torso to move, but it's getting harder to even keep his eyes closed, and his stomach is growling. Standing up is arduous with cement-filled limbs. He considers Dad again, that it might be worth the risk. Just add a hospital payment to the very long list of things he owes him. Nothing comes out when he turns the bathroom sink on, and he's left swaying in front of the mirror. Squinting through his semi-swollen eye and the hazy light of the rising sun, he examines the damage. His entire face is swollen and streaked with blood. He's not worth a hospital bill, or the hassle of getting a drive to Dad's. Downtown is closer, anyways. 

      In his pajamas, he shuffles down the sidewalk, sweating in the early morning chill. A piece of glass stabs into his foot, between his toes. Each step hurts a little worse. Some random twitchy guy offers to take him to 'his guy,' to the mission, or let him stay at his place, but thankfully agrees to drop him off in front of the Sahara. He leaves him with a dime bag and a name that Dave instantly forgets. _Find me on the same corner, every afternoon,_ he says. Dave sticks the bag in the waistband of his boxers as he walks across the deck to the front door.

      The OPEN sign is flipped to CLOSED, but through the glass door, he can see the back of someone wiping down the tables. They whirl around when he bangs on the door. The worker approaches, hysterical as usual, and Dave grits his teeth. Of every single employee that could have been there and would have helped out no questions asked, it has to be _him._ Just to make things that much harder for him. Karkat flings the door open, screeching, "Holy fuck, man! Holy shit. You are _not_ okay, what the hell happened?"

      "Do you have a first aid kit and maybe some food? I don't have any money. Sorry." Dave stares just past him, into the empty dining room.

      "Yeah, sure, whatever." He starts to say more, but Dave pushes past him and into the bathroom. He slams the door in his face, earning a string of curses. "Don't clog the toilet and don't get blood everywhere, I _just_ cleaned it!" Dave leans over the sink and peers into the dirty, frameless mirror. His face looks even worse like this. He turns the sink on to let the water get warm, which always takes a while. This was never his favorite place to take a shower. There isn't even a hand dryer. Moments later, Karkat knocks on the door, and Dave opens it long enough to snatch the first aid kit from him. He tries to close it again, but Karkat jams his foot in the way and forces it open. The knob bumps against Dave's hip, ringing through his bruised bones. He sucks a breath in between his teeth. "Sorry, sorry, sorry!" Karkat shoulders himself into the small space and closes the door behind him. "Sit," he demands, pointing to the lidless toilet. Dave stares at him dumbly.

      "Oh _hell_ no. Thanks for the bandages, now get out." He elbows Karkat out of the way to set the kit on the back of the toilet.

      "Nuh-uh. My place of work, my rules. You've got blood on the back of your head and neck. Sit." Dave squeezes the edges of the sink, leaning over it with an angry grunt through his nose.

      "Listen, I just got my face split open and my ribs broken and I'm not going to just sit there and let you clean me up like some gross fuckin' shoujo anime. I will not let what little pride I have left get flushed down that shit sucker. I can take care of myself." He snatches the rag out of Karkat's hand and runs it under the lukewarm water, glaring into the sink bowl.

      "Not very well, obviously..." Karkat mutters. He sits on the toilet and slides the open kit into his lap, leaning against the wall. The very first thing he hands to Dave is a bottle of aspirin. He swallows a handful dry, then sticks his mouth underneath the faucet. Karkat's quiet as he watches him do a quick run-over of his face with the rag, keeping his expression stoically angry. "I won't think any less of you as a man or whatever if you wince, you know." Dave discards the rag into the sink and reaches over for the antiseptic wipes. Their eyes briefly meet.

      "Am I that good looking, can't keep your eyes off me?" Karkat scowls.

      "Are you going to tell me what the fuck happened to you, or just make idiotic comments to make yourself feel special?"

      "Aw, you think I'm special?" Despite Karkat's acceptance of open expressions of discomfort, Dave only clenches his teeth tighter as he dabs at the gash in his hairline with the wipe.

      "Yeah, you're _special_ alright. So you're just going to keep flirting instead of telling me what happened?" Dave doesn't answer, and ignores the feeling of being watched. Eventually, he moves on to the various scrapes and cuts dotting his face. They almost sting worse. A bruise creeps up his collarbone from underneath the hem of his shirt. Carefully, he takes his shirt off and drops it into the sink. His entire torso is dotted with purple bruises, winding around his side and above his nipples. "Jesus Christ, Dave. Are you sure you don't need to go to the hospital? You might have a punctured lung. And a concussion. Are you dizzy, does your head hurt? Is that _weed_ in your boxers?"

      "Karkat, please... I just want to be alone," Dave says, very quietly, closing his one good eye. Karkat studies his face, barren without his glasses, then sets the kit, open, on the back of the toilet. He leaves without another word, closing the door behind him.

      After adding extra-strength neosporin to the freshly opened wound on his forehead, Dave tapes gauze to it, and attempts to clean the one on the back of his head. He scrubs at the crusted hair around it with the rag, follows with a wipe. Must have been the crowbar when his back was turned. That was stupid of him. Warm water runs over his knuckles and the scrapes on his palms as he spaces out for a few minutes, replaying the fight. Why did he freeze like that? No one was moving, it was the perfect opportunity to swipe the Joker's feet from underneath him. Maybe it would have been better if he had never left his dad's at all. He probably deserved more than his share of ass whoopings. He wipes away the last of the blood on his face and neck, underneath his nose, then scrubs at his shirt. It's wet and blotchy with pink. He shakes his head and puts it on anyways. Quickly, he wipes the rag over the small cut on his foot, then leaves it hanging on the faucet.

      Karkat sits at a table in the middle of the room, chewing on some fries. Across from him is a styrofoam box, which Dave plops himself in front of. It's a slurry of chicken, mashed potatoes, cornbread, green beans. Face clean and scruffy, he looks more like a broken man that the tough war hero he walked in as. More like a sad, vulnerable kid. "I just heated up some leftovers from last night, sorry if it's a little cold. Beggars can't be choosers," Karkat says as Dave shovels it into his mouth. "That's not free, you know. Your price is to tell me, in open and truthful statements, what your deal is." Karkat's voice is low and genuinely concerned. It's the first bit of real gentleness Dave's received in... too long. He stares down at his plate.

      "It's none of your damn business," he says blandly.

      "Does it have anything to do with Dragonfly? Last time we spoke, she sounded really bad, and I haven't seen her since then. It's been months. Did you guys break up?" Dave scoffs and sits back to take a break from scarfing his food down.

      "Yeah. We broke up."

      "Okay. And...?" Karkat twirls a fry around in the air, prompting him to continue. Dave crams the entire square of cornbread in his mouth to keep from answering. "And she was so pissed that she turned into John Cena and beat the shit out of you. Can't say you don't deserve it, then."

      "Man, I'm just trying to survive. It's her own bullshit that fucked everything up." Projectiles of soggy cornbread crumbs shoot from his mouth and across the table. Karkat follows their trajectory, reeling himself back from commenting.

      "So something violent happens involving Dragonfly and you just... don't bother to figure out what happened to her?"

      "It was _her fault._  She's a fucking mess. I'd be fine if she wasn't strung out all the fuckin' time. Or if I had just never met her in the first place." Karkat realizes that his usual tactics - steady eye contact, brows furrowed, gentle prodding - aren't what will get Dave to talk. The only way to break through his walls is to weaken his defense. Get him so worked out he can't stop himself. He leans back and shakes his head.

      "You say that as if you actually had a life. Blame her all you want, but you weren't doing so hot before, either. She was the reason you got into the Hotel in the first place, you know. She couldn't stand seeing you living on the streets so she talked to the Joker. At least she has empathy, already better than you."

      "Yeah, alright, just keep spewin' shit. Fuck you." Dave has stopped eating to shake his head. He clenches his fists on top of the table. Karkat keeps going.

      "You're just pissed cause you know I'm right. You don't give a shit about anyone but yourself, do you?"

      _"No!"_ He shouts, then cuts himself off with a sharp intake of breath. "Honestly, no, I _really_ fuckin' don't. I have got so much fucking _pressure_ on me, I don't give a shit about _shit."_  His voice is low but intense. Karkat crosses his arms and listens. "I hardly even care about basic fucking necessities. I'm exactly the narcissistic, deadbeat user that you think I am. You knew it from the beginning, congratulations! You know what I _do_ care about? I care about this moment _right_ fucking here. I'm all patched up, fillin' up my stomach, next on the list is to find a place to pass the fuck out. And when I wake up, it's right onto the next fucking thing. Piss, shower in fuckin' toilet water if I'm lucky, one star breakfast at the dumpster behind Pizza Hut. All in my fucking _underwear._ Do you know why? Cause what you see is _all_ I have." He looks down at his hands as if they hold his entire life, at the t-shirt, boxers, and chunk of a nugget that will hardly fill a bowl. His only possessions. "I have literally  _nothing._ And it's Dragonfly's fault. So at this point, nah. I don't care about her at all." He flips the lid of his to go box, snatches the styrofoam cup off the table, and stands.

      "I'll let you stay on my couch for the night," Karkat quickly offers. Dave pauses in consideration. "I'm sure my roommate wouldn't mind, and I could maybe even convince her to let you stay a little longer. Maybe even as long as you want. Depends on how many details you give me."

      After a beat, Dave turns and asks, "Why?"

      "Do I want to help you?" Karkat shrugs. "Kind of my thing."

      "You hate me."

      "You hated _me_ first. What can I say? I'm a sucker for people in need, and you're the neediest fucker I've ever met." Dave narrows his eyes in suspicion, and Karkat looks back at him steadily. "I like to help people work through their shit, alright? Distracts me from my own problems, makes me feel good about myself, whatever. In any case, it'd be shitty of me _not_ to help you, look at you. You can't sleep on the ground with broken ribs. I have no desire to mess with you or anything, so does it really matter? Dragonfly talks to me all the time. Well, she used to. So does Sollux and Aradia, and-"

      "That doesn't mean _I_ have to."

      "Jesus Christ, you are making this so difficult. What are you so afraid of, exactly? You haven't heard anything from me about the personal lives of the people that talk to me. I don't start drama or talk shit about people. What do you think is going to happen if you open up to me?" Dave rolls his eyes, shakes his head as if that's all it's good for, opens his mouth to respond. "No. Don't just write me off, that's a genuine question. You don't even have to tell me, but take a second to think about it. What do you think is going to happen if you open up? Go ahead, think about it." Karkat turns back to his fries, giving him space.

      Begrudgingly, Dave considers it. Looking out at the empty restaurant, he imagines telling Karkat all the things he's never told anyone. Imagines him responding with horror, disgust, calling him a loser. What if he doesn't understand, gives bullshit advice and pats him on the back, expecting everything to be solved? A hundred different scenarios, each one seemingly just as likely as the others. "Honestly? I don't know. I have no clue what to expect from you. You act like such a dickwad, but you're always helping people, and you give me a ten almost every time I play out front. You say you want to help people, but you don't get anything in return. Seemingly. Sounds to me like you're trying to manipulate people. Settin' up some kind of scheme to fuck people over. I know people like you, I grew up with one."

      "What? Seriously?" Karkat laughs in disbelief. "These assholes are fucking useless! My friends are goddamn idiots, all of them, you included. They're _lucky_ to have someone in their lives like me, who has actual common sense. It's not like I move mountains for them, I just tell them the obvious and they treat me like the fucking Dalai Llama." Dave rolls his eyes, nearly smiling. "Listen, I know that you've had it rough, from what I can piece together through common sense and what little people have told me about you, so I get why you'd be suspicious. But I've never done anything to intentionally hurt anyone. I'm not doing anything underhanded, or trying to find your weaknesses. What do I gain exactly by offering you my home?" Dave shifts on his feet, looking away from him. Uncertainly, he sits back down in the chair, gripping his meal tightly on his lap. Karkat casually picks up another fry. "You don't have to tell me everything, but I'm surprisingly understanding."

      "I don't know what you're even asking me here. Do you want, like, my entire life story?"

      "Sure, if you're willing. Or you could start with what happened to your face. It's not supposed to be this dramatic, you know, telling someone how you got hurt." He's quiet again. It makes Karkat want to scream and shake the words out of him, but he waits patiently.

      "She was the one that ran away while I was beating the shit out of the Joker, I didn't just leave her. I was _protecting_ her," he finally says.

      "Oh. So you found out about them?" Karkat gives him a sympathetic frown.

      "You knew?" 

      "Yeah... Everyone knew. Sorry."

      "Man, nobody tells me jack shit. Man, I really ain't got nobody, do I?" He opens his box again and runs a finger through the mashed potatoes.

      The story comes out choppy, fragmented, nonlinear. He tells him about Dragonfly and their relationship, how it was bullshit from the beginning. He tells him about the Joker and how he beat the shit out of him, and then got the shit beaten out of him times four. He tells him about his dad disappearing, how his life on Lot will be hell from here on out. Feelings of hurt are expressed as, 'and I was just like eh, you know?' Anger is a quick scoff and 'whatever, dude.' When there's an emotion he doesn't really feel but knows he probably should, he names it and checks to make sure Karkat believes him. He doesn't, but he nods anyways. Dave's hands dart around, manually pulling the words from his mouth, and when he's finished, he says, "So, yeah. That's about what happened..." He scratches at his chin and fidgets.

      Karkat is thoughtful, mulling over the confessions. "I can talk my manager into giving you a job here. But you _have_ to keep your shit straight. I'll help you as much as I can, but it's up to you to get here on time for your shift, and not act out. Can you do that?" Dave nods hesitantly, and neither one of them is sure they believe him. "We're about the same size, so you can wear some of my clothes until you have enough money to go shopping for yourself. _But!"_ Karkat emphasizes as he stands. Dave hurriedly stands with him and waits for him to round the table before following him to the door. "I don't want you bringing people over, or coming home drunk. You smoke outside, and I don't want drugs in the house. You break one rule _one time,_ and I will not hesitate to kick you back out on the street. Deal?" Dave nods emphatically. He knows the deal. "Alright. I'm dropping you off at home, and then I gotta open the restaurant. I know you're used to not showering for days at a time, but please take a fucking shower. You smell like garbage." It's not an ideal, but Dave will take what he can get.

      After all, it's only until summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6oIOI9-r5I  
> That was a strong contender for the song. The lyrics are very fitting, I think, but it's too upbeat. I don't like it as much, anyways.


	6. Shakedown Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally....  
> The moment we've all been waiting for.........  
> A CONCERT!!!!!!

_[You tell me this town ain't got no heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8lCMUkqpI7o) _

_(well, well, well, you can never tell)_

_The sunny side of the street is dark_

_(well, well, well, you can never tell)_

_Maybe that's cause it's midnight,_

_In the dark of the moon besides_

_Maybe the dark is from your eyes_

_(maybe the dark is from your eyes) x3_

_You know you got such dark eyes!_

_(whoo!)_

 

_Nothin' shakin' on shakedown street_

_Used to be the heart of town_

_Don't tell me this town ain't got no heart_

_You just gotta poke around_

_You think you've seen this town clear through_

_(well, well, well, you can never tell)_

_Nothin' here that could int'rest you_

_(well, well, well, you can never tell)_

_It's not because you missed out_

_On the thing that we had to start_

_Maybe you had too much too fast_

_(maybe you had too much too fast)  x3_

_Or just over-played your part_

_(whoo!)_

 

_Nothin' shakin' on shakedown street_

_Used to be the heart of town_

_Don't tell me this town ain't got no heart_

_You just gotta poke around._

_Since I'm passing your way today_

_(well, well, well, you can never tell)_

_I just stopped in 'cause I want to say_

_(well, well, well, you can never tell)_

_I recall your darkness_

_When it crackled like a thundercloud_

_Don't tell me this town ain't got no heart_

_(don't tell me this town ain't got no heart) x3_

_When I can hear it beat out loud!_

_(whoo!)_

 

_Nothin' shakin' on shakedown street_

_Used to be the heart of town_

_Don't tell me this town ain't got no heart_

_You just gotta poke around_

 

      "Welcome to Lot!" Dave announces, throwing his arms wide and smacking Karkat in the face, who smacks him back. Through the windshield, they can see the white tents of vendors, and a slowly growing swarm of people. Dave twists around to look at his sister and his new roommate, Kanaya, in the back seat. "Wanna get spun? I already ate some, please don't leave me hangin'." He pulls out a small, blank sheet of paper from the pocket of his tie-dyed hoodie Karkat bought him. Rose peels a few squares off and offers one to Kanaya.

      "No, thank you. I prefer to experiment with substances in the comfort and familiarity of my own home. I hope that won't dampen your night," Kanaya says with a nervous giggle.

      "Of course not, dear. I hope you don't mind if I take some myself?" 

      "Certainly not!" The two girls smirk at each other as Rose places the squares on her tongue. The tip touches her top lip, and Kanaya's eyes follow it distractedly. Dave turns to Karkat, wrinkling his nose in distaste, and holds the paper out. Karkat eyeballs it with his hand up, in the first hesitant stage of reaching for it.

      "You've never tripped before, have you?" Rose asks, tilting her head at him in curiosity. He lets his hand drop.

      "No. I've really never done anything, except get drunk and smoke weed once with The Bee Guy in high school. It was underwhelming."

      "Underwhelming is the last word one could use to describe an acid trip. But I get the sense that it will be an eye opening experience for you, and you'll be in good hands. I advise you to consider it." She climbs out of the car, displaying a hand to her date in the backseat. Playing shy, Kanaya feigns a blush and takes it to scoot out of the car after her.

      "You're not allowed to do your mystical shit without your cards, we talked about this. Go off duty for once!" Dave shouts at her.

      "Remember who bought your ticket, dear sibling."

      "Whatever, it's just Dark Star. Not legit unless it's the real shit-" She closes the door in his face and they walk away, tittering to each other.

      "I can't believe this is the first time they've met. Rose visits for like, every concert in town. How come you and Kanaya don't ever go to shows?"

      "I don't know, we're not really big into parties or loud music." Karkat flips the conversation to stall, give his nerves a chance to relax. "Why don't you live with your sister? Isn't she super rich?"

      "Yeah, but she lives in the dorms at NYU, and her mom wasn't exactly thrilled when we asked about her abusive ex's deadbeat kid staining her mansion floors." Karkat opens his mouth to prod further, but Dave interrupts. Tonight, he's not allowed any deflective, avoidant rants. It's about _him_ for once. "Okay so listen, you know the deal with Dark Star? Real simple. They reenact Dead shows. Like, all of the fuck ups, all of the big events and their speeches or whatever for that specific time and place. Back in the day before cell phones, people would place bets on what show it was. Now, though, you can't really spend actual money cause you can just Google it. Kinda sucks, but, what can you do?"

      "So it's like... a civil war reenactment? I didn't know you were all nerds, too." 

      "Hey, we're a lot of things, alright? No hate." Karkat glances down at the sheet again, but makes no move for it. It's different from what he's seen on TV and heard about; the whole thing fits in the palm of Dave's hand, and has no designs on it. Just an inconspicuous, plain piece of paper. "You don't have to trip, you know. I mean I think you'd have a great time and I'd love to introduce it to you and everything, but you're still hesitant. Wanna talk about it?" Karkat sighs.

      "We've already talked about everything. I trust you and I'm glad Kanaya said she'd stay sober. If I fly off the fucking handle, I trust her more than anyone to calm me down. And she can drive us home. I've been eating well, I got a good five hours sleep last night, which is more than usual. I have the next few days off of work, I've already been studying my ass off for finals so I could relax this weekend. I know what to expect, I'm prepared. I'm just nervous."

      "That is totally valid. But I got your back, bro. I've had bad trips, I've helped other people through bad trips, I got'chu. Mostly I've just had a really great time, and you will, too. And if you want to leave at any time, we absolutely will, no questions asked." He wiggles the sheet at him playfully, poking his shoulder with it. His eyebrows dance above the new pair of shades he bought, looking too square and awkward on his nose. Karkat tentatively takes a tab and rests it in his palm to have a better examining angle. His forehead is creased with worry.

      "God, I'm so lame. I'm still nervous."

      "Dude, no, you're not lame for being nervous. You're lame because you always wear matching socks and yell at me if I leave a cup of water sitting on the table for longer than like, twenty minutes. You're _lame_ because you cried at the end of  _Fifty First Dates,_  and because you write fanficiton unironically. You're lame because you're Karkat Vantas. But not because you're nervous." Karkat shoots him a glare.  

      "Wow, thanks for the pep talk, asshole. It's just that you guys do all kinds of stuff all the time without even thinking about it. Anyplace, any time, and you're fine with smoking or snorting anything. It's just acid, it's like a step above weed for least harmful drugs. I wish I could be like that, but I-"

      "No. You don't." Dave looks at him seriously. "It's _normal_ to be nervous, and it's _good_ to take precautions. You're being smart, preventing yourself from getting into perfectly avoidable, stupid situations. Don't let our casual relationships with drugs make you think it's okay. Cause it's not. That's why you have your name on the lease and I'm sleeping on your couch." Karkat takes a deep breath. That, surprisingly, did make him feel a little better.

      "Okay, but, what if I say or do something embarrassing?"

      "Like what?"

      "I don't know, like... take all my clothes off and try to climb on stage? Oh my god, and then what if I shit on someone's shoes, and steal the microphone from them and make some kind of embarrassing confession-"

      With his lips pressed together, Dave snorts. "Okay, well, first of all, it's _one_ hit of acid. It's not like you're going to go batshit, you're still going to be in control. And two," he holds up two fingers. "Everyone's going to be acting weird. Ninety five percent of the people here are high on something, that's like one of the main reasons they came here in the first place. They're too busy feelin' it to worry about some other guy's high. It'd be even weirder if you were acting normal, honestly. And _three,"_ he wiggles three fingers in Karkat's face obnoxiously. "The ones that do this all the time, that live on Lot, they're different. They're here _because_ they're weird and they hope _,_ nay, they _expect_ everyone else to be just as weird as them. If not, weirder. They aren't judgmental like... the _yuppies."_  He shivers dramatically, pretending to gag.

      Karkat rolls his eyes and regards the square a bit more. He slowly puts it under his tongue, and checks the time, like Dave had suggested. Around six thirty it'll kickoff, give or take half an hour. Peak around nine, come down around midnight, he'll be awake all night, and probably spend that evening sleeping. He asks if these times sound right, and Dave wants to tell him that it really isn't that cut and dry. Once Karkat gets into it, he'll be having too much fun to think about when it will end, and the passage of time won't make as much sense. But he has to get there first, so Dave tells him it sounds accurate.

      Outside, there's just enough of a chill for a light hoodie, and the sun sings over the event with a familiar warmth. It's one of the last cool days before Spring completely takes over and devolves into a suffocating summer. Booths are set up, spanning across the parking lot, their tables covered in glass pipes, hemp jewelry, pins, patches, stickers. Tie dyes flutter in the pot-and-greasy-food-laden breeze, multiple radios blasting music struggle for dominance of the airwaves. It's early, and a few unprepared business owners are still getting their stands straightened out. Dave's eyes sweep over the scene, looking for a certain squinty, slouchy perv. Seeing no familiar ones, he stops just across from a teenager selling drinks out of a cooler.

      "Alright, check it." He splays his arms out again, puffing his chest out. "This... is Shakedown Street. There's a song about it, but nobody knows what came first. Did Jerry decide to call it Shakedown and then it took on the name, or was it somehow named Shakedown and _then_ Jerry wrote a song about it? Or, well, Hunter I guess. Do you know who Jerry Garcia is?"

      "Yes, I know who Jerry Garcia is! The singer for the Grateful Dead, now replaced by John Mayer, I'm not that oblivious. Then there's lead guitarist Bob Weir, and Phil something, and uh... Hunter, apparently?" Dave shakes his head in mock disappointment.

      "Phil Lesh, and Robert Hunter. Only the best guitarist and genius lyricist that has ever and will ever exist, respectively. You gotta know this shit, Karkat." He doesn't respond, instead seething at the woman that accidentally shoved him and didn't apologize. Dave herds him down the aisle to keep from jumping on her. "Do you know what a stealie is?"

      "I've heard of it." Dave stops by a stand with patches. Many of them are of a skull with a lightning bolt in its enlarged forehead, a steal your face.

      "Six up, five down. That's how you know it's a legit Dead bolt and not just lightning. You can remember it because when you sleep in the park in San Francisco, the cops come by at six to kick everybody out, so at six everybody yells, 'Six up!' That's just my trick. Cause I used to sleep in the park at San Francisco. Actually a pretty cool place to live. I went trick or treating and people gave me joints instead of candy. Dude, you should totally come live with me in the park in San Francisco this summer." Karkat rolls his eyes at his ramblings, and they continue down the line.

      The people around them are mostly from town coming for a good time, wearing their old Grateful Dead shirts they keep in the back of their closet specifically for local concerts. Custies, Dave calls them, since they're the customers. This time of year is hard for those going on tour, selling what they can to make a living; there really _aren't_ any tours that last longer than a week or two. It's not how it used to be. Dave stops every few stands to chat up barefoot folks in mismatched clothes. He slips behind the tables, allowing them to give him half-hugs. Karkat thinks this is weird, given how Dave is about touching, but he seems relaxed. Dragonfly is the only woman he knew that doesn't shave her armpits or legs until now. Nearly every female Dave greets sports bushes under her arms and leg hair thick enough to braid. It's startling at first, but really, what did he expect?

      No one appears to notice Karkat as they gossip with Dave about people named after animals and plants, and give him stickers and tokes. Eventually, he introduces them to Karkat, points out that it's his first concert. Some people ignore him, write him off as one of the _others_ because he wears pants that fit right and a plain black hoodie. Regular hair, no tattoos or piercings, closed off. Plain. So much for not being judgmental. Others ask if he's having fun, why he had never gone to a show before. They talk to him in disinterest, looking around as they listen, like there's a wall between them, and then go back to ignoring him. In contrast, the same people lean in towards Dave as they speak, look him openly in the eye, and eagerly listen to what he has to say. Karkat tunes them out in annoyance, irritably dodging feet and loose elbows as the mass grows. This is exactly why he doesn't leave the house. If he _was_ listening, he'd hear them talking about the Joker. Rumors have spread about Dave and Dragonfly, that they're thieves and backstabbers and worst of all - snitches. Someone warns him that he's trying to get together a dusting operation for _them._ Dave rubs a hand down his face at that, peering around him at the collage of faces that blur together. He thinks maybe they should leave, but everyone tells him he hates Dark Star and wouldn't be there. It's tour he's really gotta worry about. Several people slap him on the shoulder and say they've got his back, that no one actually believes the Joker cause everyone knows he's crazy. Still, he's a little more wary as they continue to meander. Just because it's not the Joker's scene doesn't mean he wouldn't send someone else to fuck with him. 

      Instead of hearing that conversation - which is probably for the best since he's prone to panicking - Karkat examines a man standing on an overturned crate. Between each of his fingers are fat balloons, which he exchanges for bills quickly snatched from the small cluster around him. A shirtless drunk guy with a beer belly and wild hair bumps into the seller. Every balloon in his hands flies away into the air as he tumbles off his pedestal. He turns around and violently shoves the guy, who tells him to chill out. Karkat scrunches his face and turns to Dave to ask what's so special about the balloons. Dave whistles in sympathy and says that he'd be pissed, too. That it's a lot of lost money. It's nitrous, he clarifies, and offers to buy one, but Karkat shakes his head.

      He picks at a free grilled cheese sandwich he really doesn't want and slurps a water as he people watches. A couple of girls walk by holding their arms up with pointer fingers in the air, their eyes flitting across the throng of people. No one looks at them strangely, which he finds suspicious. Dave taps his shoulder and swipes his head to the side, telling him it's time to move on. It's easier to navigate the herd when he shoves people out of _his_ way, and he isn't so bothered by the bumps and accidental hand-brushing as he was earlier. He keeps his eyes locked on Dave's back as he pushes past sweaty bodies to follow, eavesdropping as they go. _The Phish show in Denver last week was radical, the vibes in that crowd, man._ River's still into fuckin' Phish, wanna beat his ass with me? _Fuck Widespread Panic, they're just wannabes, whoever listens to them is a fuckin' poser!_ Oh, yeah, Panic was a lot of fun, lots of rich assholes in New York so we were able to get a hotel for a night. Dave's friends hand him powders and pills, begin to slink towards their vans to hide their act, but he declines them, says that he doesn't want to dirty up his trip. _Because this is pure shit, man; don't need nothin' else._ Most of them take what he's selling instead. Normally, this whole thing would worry Karkat, but as it is, he's just a little... disoriented.

      Colorful hand-knitted scarves laid out haphazardly on a table grip his attention. He steps over to it, digging his greasy hands into the soft pile, feeling each strand between his fingers like silk. A bright green one catches his eye; it's Kanaya's favorite color. Gratitude abruptly blooms in his chest for his best friend, and he realizes his love for her transcends that of a mere friendship; she's more like the sibling he never had. He wonders why he doesn't tell her that more often. Nothing in the world seems more important than buying that scarf, fuck the starving kids in Africa, no one gives a shit about the inevitable collapse of society under the brunt of capitalism. As long as Kanaya gets that goddamn scarf, everything will be right. When he holds his wallet in his hand to give the woman some money, his arms seem far away. He blinks at them for a moment, rifling through the bills. They seem infinite. Dave told him to bring cash, but did he really need _this_ much? His fingers move like spider legs over the paper, sifting through the unending stack of money until Dave puts a hand on his shoulder.

      He looks up at him and says, "I need this scarf. It's for Kanaya. It's _really_ important." He holds the garment up, shaking it for emphasis. Desperately, he needs him to understand how paramount this soft green neck worm is.

      "Alright bud, I got you." Dave hands over some of his own cash to the lady running the stand, and wraps it around his neck. Karkat plays with the tassels at the ends, his fingers brushing against Dave's chest carelessly. It's the softest thing he's ever felt, and he hopes that Kanaya will get just as much pleasure from it. Dave lets him get lost in the tactile sensation of the wool, quietly observing him. He's still to keep from scaring him away, like observing a deer in its natural habitat. In his daze, he looks more peaceful than he's ever seen him. Then Karkat looks up, loudly thanks him, and turns around.

      Dave follows him out of the stream of people, tucking the bottle of water in his jacket pocket, and before they round the corner to the next aisle, he catches sight of an old man leisurely pacing on the outskirts of the stream. In his hands is a double neck guitar. Thick black dreadlocks drape over his shoulders, almost brushing the ground. A soft smirk graces his face and he bobs his head to his own rhythm. There's no amp or open guitar case nearby, and no one listens to him sing. Dave tugs on Karkat's elbow and steers him towards the dusty musician, exclaiming, "This guy's at every single show. I have no idea who he is or who he's with or how he gets around. Total mystery, but a fucking _amazing_ player." As they approach, the man smiles, showing a sparse set of teeth. He nods once in acknowledgement, and the song he was playing changes abruptly to a harder one. "Oh hell yeah, now we're gettin' it." Dave pumps his fist in the air, whooping, and the man cackles. They dance together, turning in circles and kicking their feet.

      A few others join, recording them on their phones and cheering them on. He nods down at his guitar, continuing to play as they slip money into the holes of the instrument. Dave bumps his hips into Karkat's, leans on him as he passionately plays an air guitar. Karkat beams at him, giggling. The man points the guitar in his direction and emphasizes his picking fingers, flashing him an encouraging eyebrow wiggle. Karkat smiles shyly and shakes his head, taking a step back.

      Before he can be encouraged further, the shirtless drunk comes careening towards them, screaming. He flails around, spinning and bumping into people. He goes skidding backwards in Karkat's direction, and in his confounding come up, Karkat simply watches it happen. Dave yanks him away, and they both wobble back as the guy falls. Everyone laughs at him, pointing at his pants around his knees, revealing his asscrack. "You good?" Dave asks, and Karkat nods, pointing to the last row. Dave slips a twenty into the guitar, gives the old smiling guy a fist bump, Karkat waves, and they move back into the flow of the horde.

      The ocean of fans grows thicker the closer the concert comes. Karkat finds it almost fun, finding the best openings to slip through, entertaining when he comes face-to-face with someone and they have to find a way to step past each other. Humans are all clumsy and awkward, he discovers. Many fingers float above bobbing heads, and he finally asks what the deal with it is. Dave explains that they're asking for tickets, preferably cheap ones, sometimes in exchange for drugs or other favors. He points out the signs sprinkled around, asking for miracles. All about gettin' into the show. "They're fake a lot of the time, though, so you have to be careful who you buy them from." Karkat nods gravely at the sage information.

      As Dave scours the stands for another friend, Karkat sits heavily on a grassy island. He pulls the leg of his pants up to scratch his knee. His calf swells then shrinks, jiggling slightly like it's made of jelly. He pulls his hands away and thinks a startling 'what have I done.' Very suddenly, he realizes he's tripping. He's been following Dave around in an inebriated stupor, his body is filling with vibrations, he might be mildly freaking out. Dave had told him that the come up might be a bit rough, so he employs his handy dandy breathing techniques and soothing mental mantras he came up with a few days before the concert.  _Kanaya's right in my pocket, I can leave at any time. No one will be mad at me, they've gone to a million shows and they'll go to a million more. I'm not freaking out, everything is fine._ Dave asks if he's alright, and before he thinks of a response, he says he's great. The words feel sticky in his mouth, and his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth. It's fine, he's fine, he's managing. Disoriented, but fine.

      The vibrations and sensations only grow stronger. He thinks again of telling Dave that he's _maybe_ not okay. He watches him interact easily, instigating half-hugs and fist bumps, excitedly greeting old friends. Over the month that Dave has been staying in his living room and working alongside him at the restaurant, he feels he's finally begun to figure him out. They've had many movie marathons together, learned just a little bit of each other's backstories, even had deep, eye-opening conversations from sunset to sunrise. But this guy, the one with a goofy, carefree grin, talking to random people and making inside jokes - he's from an entirely different world.

      Karkat begins to grow alienated and jittery, like he's trusting his life to a stranger. He begins questioning how well he actually knows Dave, if he should be following him around while he's making drug deals. What if they get busted, or he gets in a fight with another dealer? Why did he want to take him to a concert so bad in the first place, and remind him so much to lean on him? What is he planning? He rubs at his chest absently, looks around uneasily. Maybe he should go home. Or just find Kanaya, at the very least, that's someone he can trust without a doubt. She needs her scarf.

      "Dude?" Dave puts a hand on his shoulder, and he looks over at him expectantly. Two other scruffy guys gape at him in curiosity. Karkat stares back, scrutinizing the way their beards fall off their chins and regrow cyclically.

      "Dude's fucked up," one of them comments, chuckling.

      "Yeah, is this the shit he's on?" The other asks, gesturing to his own pocket.

      "Sure is. You enjoy yourselves, now, don't do anything I wouldn't do. I'll catch up with y'all later, yeah?" Dave flashes them a pair of finger guns then pulls Karkat away, between a few cars. "Hey, man, you alright?"

      "I gotta get that scarf to Kanaya. Also, I don't know that I can trust you," Karkat blurts, and immediately, Dave's gleeful expression falters.

      "Well, I guess there are a lot of reasons that you shouldn't. You said you trusted me earlier, though. What changed?" Karkat holds his gaze steadily.

      "I don't know, you just seem different. More amiable and emotive. I've never seen you like this." Dave laughs abruptly, his grin glued back to his face.

      "Karkat!" He blinks at him. Dave grips his shoulders and squeezes. "Karkat. _Obviously_ I'm going to seem different to you, you're faded. And of _course_ I'm acting different. _I'm_ faded! Literally everybody's faded. You're acting different, too, you know."

      "I am? How? Is it bad?" Karkat grips Dave's shoulders in return, making him howl again.

      "No, dude, you're fine!"

      "This isn't what I was expecting. I'm really... I don't know, scattered. Like I can't think straight. I feel lost in my own head."

      This could turn bad, fast. Dave leans on the front of a car casually, tilting his head at him. "Yeah, that's normal. You're not lost, I promise. You're actually doing really great. Do you want to go into the show, get settled in? We can find Kanaya and give her your scarf. She might have to fight me for it, though, it's hella comfy." Karkat nods, and as they walk, he reaches for Dave's arm, then pulls back as if burned.

      "Sorry. I don't mean to be so needy, sorry. I'll shut up now." He stuffs his hands in his pocket and strains not to touch him as much as possible with so many people jostling them towards each other. Dave wants to tell him that it's alright to hold onto his arm; he doesn't mind being his leash. Instead, to make his bro feel more at ease, he slings an arm over his shoulders and pulls him to his side.

      "Nah, dude, express yourself. Let me extinguish your worries. That's what I'm here for; I'm your shaman on this journey tonight. My _job_ is to make sure you have a bitchin' good time." The corners of Karkat's mouth finally inch up a bit. "I gotta make one quick stop, though. Keep your eye out for a dancin' bear."

      This puzzles Karkat greatly. A dancing bear? He imagines a grizzly bear standing in line to get a chicken burrito, dancing along to the music blaring from a nearby car stereo. He does the macarena, a little cha-cha slide, then takes a woman by the hand, spins her around, bites her head off. The images play through his mind on their own accord, and he's grateful for Dave's arm around him, guiding him through the mob. They lurch a bit, and he wraps his arm around Dave's back to keep them steady. He grins over at him, and Karkat smiles back.

      Peering between an RV parked sideways and a tent into the other aisle, he sees it. He yanks Dave in that direction, and he follows without question. A guy in a yellow bear costume, covered in dirty splotches, swaggers down the walkway, flashing peace signs. Karkat bursts into uncontrollable laughter, and Dave chuckles. "What?" The pure _absurdity_ \- a goddamn dirty bear costume, _dancing,_ posing for pictures with people as if this was fucking Disney World. "What is it?" Karkat covers his mouth with his arm, trying to push the unprecedented amusement back down his throat. "What's so funny?" He giggles a bit at Karkat, tearing up with his mirth. "What are you laughing at?" Karkat finally points in glee at the bear. Dave perks up when he sees it and waves his hand in the air, calling out, "Dirk!" The bear turns, and starts towards them. He discreetly points towards Karkat and mimics a hug.

      Karkat gasps a little as it approaches and promptly descends on him with open arms. He accepts the embrace with wheezes and a few joyful tears, still unable to control his chortling. Tucked into the soft, slightly damp and foul-smelling fur, he's enveloped in momentary darkness that writhes behind his closed eyes as if sentient. And when he emerges, he has the sensation of stepping through a portal into another dimension. He takes a deep breath and blinks a few times, noticing - seeing, really, for the first time - the sky, bruising with purple and dark blue, like a watercolor painting. The layers of color blend, soft and gentle, blanketing the entire sky. He turns in a slow circle with his head craned back to see all of it. Has it always been this beautiful? How could he ever see something of this magnitude, and not have his breath taken away?

      Dave cheeses at him and discreetly hands the bear a wad of cash. It disappears somewhere in the fur. He leans in to the head, yelling over the noise but still quiet enough that only Dirk can hear. "Hey, uh, you hear that the Joker's got it out for me?" As he says it, the guy sitting in front of the RV slaps his hand against his guitar, and looks directly at him. Dave's eyes go wide and he jerks back. Dirk lifts the head just a little so his voice can be heard through the gap in the neck.

      "Don't worry about it, I got you covered." He tucks the head back in, pats him on the back, and saunters away. Dave grapples for him, turning back to the man in alarm, but he's back to singing and tapping his foot, like it never happened. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. This is really bad. Once again, he throws a light arm around Karkat's shoulders and leads him toward the seating area, flicking his eyes around in suspicion. 

      While Dave spirals into paranoia, Karkat looks around, and he _finally_ gets it. People join together, touching hands and sharing their lives. All this talk of family; these are people who have been kicked to the outer rims of society and have found a life for themselves on the road, with others like them who value freedom and gratitude and open arms, minds, hearts, and eyes. Give more than you get, always give when you can without expecting anything in return. They've taken a stand against bullshit societal norms and created a world completely their own to live the life that _they_ want.

      It's beautiful.

      He follows Dave through the flood towards the seating, and finds himself a bit _relieved_ on behalf of his friend. Here's Dave, who has been ostracized from his blood family and treated like the universe's scraps, having a _good_ time with people who get him, finding a sense of belonging. Rather than a doormat, he's just been slotted in somewhere else; not forgotten, just shaped differently. Karkat floats through the front gates, hands over the ticket when prompted, watches curiously as a man gives him a quick pat down. He balls his fist in the back of Dave's shirt to keep track of him through the thick mass. "I think... I think I take life way too seriously," Karkat yells out and Dave immediately turns to look at him over his shoulder.

      "Yeah? You think that might be a thing? You, Karkat Vantas? Really? Too serious, you sure about that?" 

      "Yeah, like, life is actually, kind of, almost... fun, sometimes? I miss out on so much of it because I'm afraid of not being totally prepared for something, and of failing, or worse, being mediocre." Dave directs them out of the mess of damp armpits and onto a lawn, looking behind them. It's far from the stage, behind the actual seating, but people have laid out blankets and chairs and sit around waiting for the concert to begin. He listens to Karkat seriously as they pick out a spot to sit. "I break my fucking back to get straight A's and to work extra hours so I have money to, what? Add more to my savings account? I don't even know what I'm saving _for._ I don't go out, ever. This is the first time I've actually _done_ something, just for fun, in... shit, a long time."

      "Why?" Dave asks as he finds an open space between blankets and heavily plops down, leaning back on his hands. He seems relaxed, but continues to peer around those surrounding them. 

      "I don't know..." Karkat sits next to him, cross-legged, threading his fingers through the grass, oblivious to Dave's stress. "Because... nothing _is_ fun. I have to force myself to do everything. Work, school, hanging out with friends. It's a chore, all of it. I don't enjoy anything, I don't even have any hobbies."

      "That's not true. You read and write and code and watch movies. I write too, you know, we could share sometimes. That sounds fun, yeah?"

      "You write? Really?" Dave shrugs bashfully.

      "Well, sort of. I mean, I write poems and songs. Sometimes."

      "Why am I just now finding out about this?" Karkat accuses, looking wounded. Dave gazes at him affectionately.

      "It's not really somethin' I go around telling everybody. In fact, nobody knows that except Rose, so you should feel lucky I even mentioned it."

      "Wow, thank you," Karkat says sincerely, smiling with a sappy, heartfelt expression. Dave laughs and pulls him into a side hug.

      "You should call the girls and tell them to bring the blankets and chairs when they come in."

      Dave fondly regards Karkat marveling at the world around him. He looks like a fawn opening its eyes for the first time. The novelty of acid is long gone for Dave, and he's a bit saddened remembering his first few times tripping, how much it had impacted him. It's too easy to navigate now, too familiar. Everything about himself, the universe, the fucked up state of the world has already been explored and exhausted. There's nothing else to learn. _Especially_ on only two tabs.

      Rose and Kanaya eventually find them. As soon as Karkat sees them, he untangles the scarf from Dave's neck and meets them halfway. He holds it out to his roommate in both hands, looking at her with misty eyes. "I got this for you because I realized I don't tell you enough that I appreciate you. You are my _best_ friend, Kanaya. You're the kindest, smartest, sincerest _best_ person I have ever met in my entire life. I love you, I really need you to know that." She covers her mouth with her hand to hide her snickering at his wobbling lip. It's itchy against her skin and she knows immediately that she will never wear it, but perhaps could make something out of it.

      "What a nice surprise, thank you, Karkat. I love you too, I hope you know that as well. I also got you a present, to show my appreciation." She opens her purse and pulls out a pin of a bright yellow dancin' bear. Karkat gasps and covers her hand. "Rose informed me that it's a sort of custom they do here. You're not supposed to buy pins for yourself, but give them to others. It's sort of like a caste system, I suppose. The more pins you have, the more... _experienced_ you are." The water gathering in his eyes leaks down his cheeks. He fumbles with it and doesn't notice when it pricks his finger as he sticks it to his hoodie. He clutches her hand again.

      _"T_ _hank you._ You have no idea what this means." She chuckles and hooks her arm in his to head back to their friends.

      From her chair, Rose pats Dave on the head. "You're being paranoid. There are so many people here looking out for you, even if someone did try something, they'd be the one to suffer in the end. Relax, everybody's having a good time." She points to Karkat and Kanaya, both of them emotional and happy as they move towards them.

      A knot unties itself in Dave's chest, and he actually sniggers at himself. With all of his experience, it seems he's still not safe from the grips of delusion. The guy he thought was following them probably wasn't even looking in their direction, or if he was, it was a coincidence. Everything is  _all good in the hood._ The boys lay out the blanket and wrap another one around themselves, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. Karkat shows Dave his pin with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Synchronicities, man. Don't lose it." He says, and tucks the blanket around him tighter.

      Kanaya fusses with Karkat's hair, gives him some of her water, makes sure he's having a good time. He looks around at the three of them and his eyes well up with tears again. Gratitude fills him until it becomes too much and pours out of him. Wordlessly, he cries, and Dave wraps an arm around him while Kanaya rubs his back. He's been wasting so much time and energy, losing _years_ of his life that he'll never get back to sadness, anger, and fear. Why? What for? How could he feel anything but love for his stupid friends, his family that he hardly calls anymore, the opportunities he's had? The experience he's having right now. It all clicks into place in his mind, and he declares to himself that he'll be better. He'll do better for the people in his life and for himself, he'll appreciate all that he has more. He'll be grateful instead of taking things for granted. For once, he'll let himself feel more than the same few emotions he's been cycling through for years.

      From the screens set up high on the awning above the seating, they watch the people scurrying around the stage. Persian carpets cover the stage floor, and two hefty drum sets. Colorful spotlights swoop across it, contorting and rippling over the crowd. The band members file on stage in front of their microphones, and everyone screams. Kanaya asks, "Where are Aradia, The Bee Guy and Dragonfly, I wonder? The concert's about to start."

 

      Dragonfly doesn't notice that they aren't bringing any magic chocolates to the concert like they usually do. Aradia helps her stumble into the car as she distractedly pulls a cigarette out of her purse. The Bee Guy twists around to peer at them through his open window. "Does she even know what's going on?" Aradia closes the door on his question and rounds the car to the passenger side. He twists the other way to look into the backseat at Dragonfly and asks, "Do you even know what's happening right now?"

      "Duh. We're goin' to a concert!" She cackles, then drifts forward in slow motion, like a toy winding down. The cigarette slips from her fingers and after a few moments, she wades through the air like water to find it again. Aradia pushes her back to a more comfortable slump against the window. The cigarette falls from her grasp again, but she doesn't notice this time, and lets her hand drift down to the seat. 

      The Bee Guy slouches in his seat, glaring straight ahead at the road on their way to the "concert." Beside him, Aradia sings louder than the radio, waving her hand out the window and laughing. It pisses him off, but as long as she leaves him alone, he won't say anything. As they pass the loud crowds and music of the amphitheater, Dragonfly sits up, slurs incomprehensibly, and tries to get out in the middle of traffic. The child locks are on, and she gets frustrated, aggressively pulling on the handle. Aradia climbs into the back and forces her to sing with her, poking at her cheek until she complies. She is appeased with the company for the rest of the ride as they weave out of town, through the nearest state forest. Between the soft music, the comforting rumble of the car, and the heroin, she falls asleep.

      It's dark by time they make it to the campground. The only thing they can see is the part of the dirt road engulfed in their headlights, and the spattering of moths that get stuck on the windshield. With all the bumping, Dragonfly snorts awake and mumbles. She rolls the window down, filling the car with the loud screech of cicadas, and sniffs at the humid air like a dog. "I can smell the partyin'!" She announces, just as they pull up to a line of cabins. Only one seems to be occupied, several cabins away from theirs on the end of the row. When The Bee Guy turns the car off, they're enclosed in blackness. The only light is from the distant campfire of their neighbor.

      "Ooh, this is going to be _so_ much fun!" Aradia squeals, jumping out of the car and throwing her arms out, face tilted toward the sky. Moonlight bathes down on her and The Bee Guy admires her soulful beauty, simultaneously slapping a mosquito on his arm. Dragonfly pads towards her, her whole face and body drooping like a melting candle.

      "Okay, so, listen, I gotta meet up with a guy, but then I'll... meet up with you guys at the ticket stand, alright? Just point me in the direction of the porta potties." The couple share one of their infamous knowing looks, and Aradia puts a gentle arm around her shoulders.

      "Hun, we're not at the concert. We've kidnapped you, and you're not leaving this cabin for any reason, for _two_ weeks, got that? We're gonna get you off that shit like they used to - by force. It'll be so much fun!"

      "Yeah, after the week of violently puking and shitting yourself." The Bee Guy is already dragging his bag out from the trunk. He refuses to get anybody's else's, he says, and stomps into the cabin. The plan is stupid, and he knows they're all going to be miserable. If it doesn't work - which he's sure it won't - it will have been a waste of everyone's time and money. But, of course, Aradia always gets her way.

      Dragonfly's head is tilted down towards the ground as she puts together what she's just been told. She doesn't respond for a while, simply lets herself be led into the cabin. They make a quick, small campfire, roast some hot dogs. She even delights at her stick full of marshmallows from the tip to the end, and eats s'mores until she's sick. Her friends joke with her, but walk on eggshells, waiting for the anticipated tantrum. Everything's fine until she goes for her purse and doesn't find a single baggie, pill or joint. She finally looks to her two best friends with dawning understanding, and her face twists in rage.

 

      Karkat is rooted to the ground, staring up at his friends with euphoria plastered to his face. Rose and Kanaya dance together delicately, smiling. Beside him, Dave contorts his body moronically and claims to be dancing. He holds a hand out to Karkat and shouts, "Come on, man, dancing will literally _never_ feel as good as right now." Karkat reaches up to take the hand, but pulls it away and shakes his head. His body feels heavy, pulled to the earth like a magnet, and his head spins from all the noise and colors. Dave leaves him alone to twist in circles and shimmy his shoulders, delighting in the way Karkat grins up at him.

      The music swirls around Karkat's head. He listens to every individual piece, holding onto the words, trying to make sense of it all. Images on the screen hanging above the band twist around each other, fade and tangle. Bikes, butterflies, stealies, and landscapes float outside of the confines of the screen and gracefully fall to the ground, disappearing. The bass fills his chest mightily, flooding his body with a deep thrumming.

      Between songs, the guitarists pluck at their strings, talking with music. They settle on the next piece, and with the first few lines, Dave gasps. He points at Karkat, groping the air with his hands along to the beat. He sings along, _"You tell me this town ain't got no heart! Well, well, well... you can never tell."_ When the verse ends, everyone around them leaps into the air with their arms above their heads, shouting, "Whoo!" Karkat looks around in bewilderment. The next line catches his attention, _"Nothin' shakin' on Shakedown Street, used to be the heart of town."_  This is the song that Dave was talking about earlier, he realizes. He knows something! The song continues, and again, everyone shouts and whoos. Karkat attempts his own, but is too late. Dave taps on his head and waves him to his feet. He shrinks away, chuckling softly as Dave nudges his wiggling shoulder into his, and finally swivels his hips a little. Again, he misses the final whoo and vows his life right then to memorizing the song and exactly when to stand with the crowd.

      When the intermission rolls around, Kanaya and Rose collapse into their chairs in exhaustion. Dave falls onto the blanket, limbs sprawled out. It's absurd, Karkat thinks again. Everything. Uptight, stick in the mud Karkat at a concert, tripping his brains out. He who never does anything risky or out of the ordinary, having what just may be the best night of his life. Worrying seems like the biggest waste of time, even though it still plays in the background of his mind despite all the external stimulus. Worries about how he's acting, how he'll feel in the morning, if the gas bubbling in his intestines is a bad sign. A massive weight of anxiety hangs in his chest, and yet, he lays on the ground grinning at the breathing moon like an idiot. Stars dart across the watery sky and form clusters, shooting out randomly as if to catch his attention. They try to tell him something, and he tries to read them, but with his high winding down, he's deaf to their message.

      He can feel it trickling out of him, and exhaustion settling back into place. While he feels wide awake, like he just had the best night of sleep in his life, his body is tired. All of his muscles have been clenched up, and his jaw feels tight from grinding his teeth without realizing. He'll definitely need a day to recover, but he's in awe at himself. Even though he wasn't able to fall over himself dancing like Dave, he moved his hips! He nodded his head! He listened, and understood, and changed his perception, if just a little. It feels like the beginning of something big and important. At his ripe old age of twenty one, he thought he was done with self-discovery and figuring out his identity. But maybe he's just settled into it, let his depression take over his personality for him. There's more wiggle room, he's realized. Room to grow. Maybe one day he'll even be able dance.

      He sits in quiet contemplation, scanning some of the people around them. On the blanket beside them is a couple with a toddler and a baby. They have several backpacks and a two-person stroller, scattered with stuffed animals and small toys. The father uses the baby's hands to pat out a beat on his own chubby little legs while the girl tickles his toes. He squeals, drool dripping from his multiple chins. The mother carefully rolls a joint and lights it. She catches Karkat's eye and smiles, then scoots over to pass it to him. Without thinking, he takes it between his fingers and takes a small hit. Rose reaches her hand out, and he passes it to her. As the two women begin chatting, Dave crashes beside him, his elbow bumping into him lightly. Karkat hadn't even noticed that he was gone. He slurps obnoxiously at a soft drink, holding out a paper boat of nachos. Just looking at it makes him sick.

      "God, how can you eat right now? I have never had so little appetite, absolutely no desire whatsoever to put _anything_ near my mouth. The smell alone is going to make me hurl." He pushes the food away, sliding over a foot.

      "What? You're crazy, you _gotta_ get your munch and drank on after a trip. Right, Rose?" In reply, Rose bends to grab a nacho, smear it in the cheese and salsa, and shove it messily into her mouth. Karkat shakes his head in disgust and the siblings smirk at each other.

      They move their blanket closer to the couple's, and share their nachos with them. Karkat cries for a third time when they let him hold the baby, and laughs loudly when he takes Dave's sunglasses. When the band climbs back on stage and slams into the next song, everyone stands up at once and cheers. The little girl takes Karkat's hands and tugs on them, forcing him to twirl her around in a circle. He happily obliges, swaying his hips just a little more.

      There's a pause in the music and Karkat peeks at the screen hanging above the pit with a blown-up image of the stage. Drums are set in a circle all around a guy sitting on a stool. He bangs on them with various things, and others bang on the outsides with him. Strange, warping sounds tangle in the air. The couple says that they're going to leave early, to beat the crowd and get the kids to bed. Karkat collapses onto his back, staring up at the still night sky. Dave lays down next to him, resting the back of his head on his hands. Without his glasses, he looks tired. Karkat realizes that the baby had left with them in his mouth, drool dripping down the arms. "So," he says, "What do you think?" Karkat takes a second to answer, reflecting on the evening.

      "I think you dirty hippies just might be onto something."


	7. Box of Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not everything in this chapter 100% reflects my personal beliefs, just putting that out there. I didn't go too in depth with any topic but feel free to get political in the comments, I'd love to hear your thoughts :)

_[Look out of any window](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9r8aycpHmY0) _

_Any morning, any evening, any day_

_Maybe the sun is shining_

_Birds are winging or_

_Rain is falling from a heavy sky,_

_What do you want me to do,_

_To do for you to see you through?_

 

_For this is all a dream we dreamed_

_One afternoon long ago_

_Walk out of any doorway_

_Feel your way, feel your way_

_Like the day before_

_Maybe you'll find direction_

_Around some corner_

_Where it's been waiting to meet you,_

_What do you want me to do,_

_To watch for you while you're sleeping?_

 

_Well please don't be surprised_

_When you find me dreaming too_

_Look into any eyes_

_You find by you, you can see_

_Clear through to another day_

_Maybe been seen before_

_Through other eyes on other days_

_While going home,_

_What do you want me to do,_

_To do for you to see you through?_

 

_It's all a dream we dreamed_

_One afternoon long ago_

_Walk into splintered sunlight_

_Inch your way through dead dreams_

_To another land_

_Maybe you're tired and broken_

_Your tongue is twisted_

_With words half spoken_

_And thoughts unclear_

_What do you want me to do_

_To do for you to see you through?_

 

_A box of rain will ease the pain_

_And love will see you through_

_Just a box of rain,_

_Wind and water,_

_Believe it if you need it,_

_If you don't just pass it on_

_Sun and shower,_

_Wind and rain,_

_In and out the window_

_Like a moth before a flame_

 

_And it's just a box of rain_

_I don't know who put it there_

_Believe it if you need it_

_Or leave it if you dare_

_And it's just a box of rain_

_Or a ribbon for your hair_

_Such a long long time to be gone_

_And a short time to be there_

 

      Kicking Dragonfly's addiction is rough for everyone involved. She screams over their attempts at comfort, throws tantrums like a toddler, refuses to eat or drink so they'll have to take her to the hospital before she starves to death, she begs and cries and insults. Her skin grows pale with the amount of excrement and vomit pouring from her body on an hourly basis. Everywhere she goes, The Bee Guy follows behind with a stream of lavender air freshener. The first morning, she sprints down the line of cabins, banging on doors and begging for help to escape her kidnappers. Aradia and The Bee Guy watch her go to each house, wheezing and kicking trees when no one answers. She comes back, pouting, and they cheerfully tell her that dinner is ready. The beautiful cabin by a picturesque lake becomes a cage, spilling over with resentment, held together only by a thread of determination, and years of friendship. Dragonfly hates them for all of it. 

      Her captors - get it? - have promised themselves to restrain from yelling or showing any signs of anger, hostility, uncertainty or intimidation. Patience is key. They take turns rubbing her back while she's curled into the fetal position with her face pressed against the wall, moaning and shaking. Their teeth split with each shout that slams against them, never to see the open air. When they're alone, a few wisps of suppressed anger drift through the cracks, aimed at each other, before they're able to reel it in. At night, they allow her a few puffs of a joint to help her sleep. Until she snuck into their bedroom and smoked everything they brought in one sitting. She was cut off completely after that.

      By the fifth day, when they wake up to her empty bedroom, they nearly call it off. They slip on their shoes, slathering themselves in bug spray for their hike in the woods to search for her. Maybe she's better off loose, no one and nothing holding her back. Despite Aradia's worried insistence to hurry, The Bee Guy meanders to the bathroom for a lazy morning pee. In the tub, soaking in lukewarm bath water, is Dragonfly. It was her bed that night. Throughout the day, she accepts her meals without complaint, avoiding eye contact when they slip in to use the restroom, and doesn't respond to their prompting questions. Stubborn silence is better than violent outbursts; progress has been made after all. To entice her out into the warmth of the living room, they play _The Wizard of Oz,_ blasting Pink Floyd's _The Dark Side of the Moon_ over it. They loudly exclaim about the synchronizations, but no amount of howling monkeys or 80's rock draw her out.

      When she finds herself sitting on the toilet with a bowl full of puke on her lap and her intestines gurgling, Aradia pulling her hair back as The Bee Guy douses the bathroom with febreze, a moment of clarity floods her mind. _This_ is the hard part, and she's doing it with two of her favorite people, who endure her tantrums and attitude and smelly bodily fluids because they genuinely want her to get better. She's staying in a remote woods, completely isolated, allowed to do whatever the hell they want for the next two weeks. While it may not feel like it, this is perhaps the best thing that has ever happened to her. It's flattering, but when a particularly bad movement passes through her bowels, obscured only by her retching, she calmly asks, "Are you guys seriously going to sit there and listen to me shit my guts out?" No screeching, no whining, no begging or cursing or insulting. Startled by her resigned voice, they scramble out, leaving her to her business. While she remains irritable the rest of the week, she no longer has to be forced to eat. She shuts herself in her room and tosses around her bed, reveling in her various aches and pains. Sometimes she even stops to listen to their conversations, maybe making a face or two, though rarely participating for more than a snarky two-worded comment.

      In the middle of another sleepless night, she trudges into the kitchen for a snack. Aradia and The Bee Guy sit in the living room, pausing their conversation to pat the cushion next to them in invitation. She ignores them, shuffling into the kitchen and staring into the fridge with the intensity of a starving sighted person. "We were just talking about my grandma. She rode around with the Merry Pranksters for a hot minute." Aradia twists around the back of the couch to watch her.

      "We've been friends since fucking elementary school, basically still shitting our pants, and she never mentioned it until _now_ _."_   The Bee Guy scoffs in disbelief.

      "Who?" 

  _"Who?"_ They both exclaim.

      "Girl, you cannot call yourself a hippie and not know who the Merry Pranksters are! You know One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest? Ken Kesey?" Aradia turns around fully to sit backwards, resting her arms on the back of the couch.

      "Haven't read it, but yeah." Dragonfly peels a cheese stick and gnaws on it as she moves on to feel around the counter.

      "He was a major part of the counterculture, and his followers were called the Merry Pranksters. They had these parties called Acid Tests where the Warlocks would play, before they were the Grateful Dead, and the Hell's Angels would stand guard, and _everyone_ would be on acid. Back before anyone really knew what it was or does, not that we do now. Before it was illegal." Everyone shares mutual looks of disdain, and Aradia continues. "They drove around the States and down into Mexico, just expanding their minds and introducing people to the life changing properties of psychedelics and showing them how fucked the establishment is."

      "Oh, wait a second. They were the ones on the Further bus, weren't they?" Dragonfly sniffs at a bag of chips before plunging her hand into it. The Further bus was the vessel from which the Pranksters spread their gospel. It was painted in crazy colors, decked out into a psychedelic dream. Even now, on Lot, there are sad attempts at replicating it, but nothing can compare to the original. Or so Dragonfly's been told. Since she's blind and everything, it's hard for her to really get the difference.

      "Yes! See, you _do_ know about them! I was just telling Bee about one of the Acid Tests my grandma went to. She dated Neal Cassady for like, a week and got to meet _everybody._ She said it was her idea once to switch the labels on the beer kegs. One was spiked and one wasn't so whoever didn't want to, got spun anyways. What a lady, am I right?"

      "That's actually kind of fucked up, though." The Bee Guy stands and lumbers into the kitchen. He knocks Dragonfly's hand out of the way to steal a large handful of chips, then starts back towards the couch.

      "Well, they were pranksters! Why would anyone go to one of their parties and expect to _not_ get spun? They were _literally_ called the Acid Tests. She said that the whole town shut down because the scary biker gang and all the crazy Beatniks were coming. No stores were open, everyone locked their doors. But they eventually ran out of beer, so Neal called a local convenience store and the guy was terrified that they'd kill him or something, I don't know, but he drove all the way to the store and opened it, just for them. They bought out the whole store, filled up several cars full." She laughs lightly.

      "Well, shit, that's probably why they made acid illegal, to stop the parties. Is that why everyone was so against the hippies back then? They got a bad rap for hanging with the Angels?" Dragonfly's voice is muffled behind a wad of partially chewed Doritos.

      "Back then? They're against us _now."_ The Bee Guy takes a final chip from his palm and dumps the rest into Aradia's hands. "It has nothing to do with the gangs, it's because they were telling everyone that the government fucking sucks. The public was brainwashed to believe that anything that goes against _patriotism_ and _corporations_ and _the American military_ is evil. They made them believe that tie dye was the devil's flag. And they made it illegal because those same people were starting to stand up to them. They were eating mushrooms, smoking grass, and they started to see how fucked up everything was. Vietnam War protests, anyone? They didn't want the people rioting against them and taking away their power. So they punished them back into obedience. Think about that for a second. Plants. _Illegal_. And they're classified as _schedule one._ Do you know what else is a schedule one drug?" He looks over his shoulder, directly at Dragonfly. "Heroin. But do you know what's schedule _two_ _?_ Meth. So weed, acid, mushrooms? Higher risk of abuse, and are the most dangerous types of drugs, according to our government. Weed, more 'dangerous' than _meth._ Can you fucking believe that? I can't fucking believe that." Dragonfly shoves another handful into her mouth to keep from saying anything she might regret.

      "And they specifically say that they have no medicinal use, which is _blatantly_ false! There have been _so_ many studies on treating mental illness and addictions with mushrooms, LSD, molly. It increases the brain's neuroplasticity, allowing brain cells to make new connections, to get the wheels unstuck. It can rewire the brain entirely. Not to mention, it increases creativity and makes people think outside the box, experience something otherworldly. You don't even have to be full on tripping to experience the effects. Microdosing is a legit form of medication, and it _works."_  

      "What's the saying? Put a group of drunk guys in a room together and they'll start fighting, but put a group of guys high on weed together and they'll come out as friends. I know the prohibition backfired and everything, but it's pretty hilarious that cigarettes and alcohol are perfectly legal and socially acceptable when it's common knowledge that they're harmful." Dragonfly picks at her teeth as she speaks. "And you _know_ it's cause of Big Pharma. If the common folk catch wind that there's this great stuff growin' in the woods that can replace their drawers full of prescriptions, they'd lose all their business."

      "It's fucking _legal_ in parts of the country! In those states at least they should release people who were locked up for having weed. I knew this guy that was in prison for _fifteen years_ because he had acid in his pocket. Granted, it was a _lot_ of acid. But he had a cellmate that was in for molesting his daughter from the time she _born_ until she was fucking _sixteen years old._ You know how much time he got? Go ahead, guess." The Bee Guy crosses his arms and waits. No one says anything, and after a beat, he says, "Seven. He got _seven years_ for abusing and traumatizing his fucking kid for the first sixteen years of her life." Aradia eyes tear up momentarily. Dragonfly pauses her chewing as her mind processes the statement.

      "That motherfucker should have been shot," she says in disbelief. "And all these fucking people getting off for rape with no consequences. They target minorities, because they _have_ to fill up their prisoners, and who gives a shit about black people, right? They profit off of each prisoner, and they have a quota to fill, so might as well throw anyone in there. Imagine if all the money they spent per prisoner was equal to how much they spend per student. It's a money machine, that's all. Another way to stuff their fucking pockets."

      "Most of the people in there come from childhood abuse and mental illness. Why not start there, help kids and sick people? Sticking them in prison is only going to make it worse." Aradia blinks away the tears before they can fall and leans into The Bee Guy. He slides his arm around her and rubs her shoulder.

      "Yeah, they treat them like shit! I get that they're 'bad guys' or whatever - some of them, anyways - but prison is supposed to be about rehabilitation. They're just shoving them away from the public eye and doing whatever the fuck they want. They have way too many prisoners and way too few programs to help them. They abuse them, give them disgustingly unhealthy food, treat them like savages. I've heard horror stories about the medical care in there. It's fucked up."

      "Have you guys heard about prisons in Norway?" Aradia asks. "It's like a vacation. They start them out at maximum security, and with good behavior they can get to medium, then low security. They live in like, actual apartments. And they have relationships with the guards and good programs. Our like, eighty percent recidivism is fucking crazy. They have no incentive to do better, nothing to lose. They don't _know_ how to stop what they've been doing their whole lives, they don't know the other options, they just come out knowing some tricks about how to work the system. What we're doing now is broken. It just breeds more hatred for authority and increases the instability of these already hurting people. Then they just throw them out on the street with no belongings, no money or food or resources or a place to stay. It's heartbreaking."

      "Now that weed has been legalized, instead of releasing people, they're just capitalizing off it themselves, making it even more expensive and hard to get. I paid twenty five bucks when I went to California last year for _three gummies."_ He scoffs. "I mean, it was fucking amazing, don't get me wrong. It's all ditch weed down here. Can't they grow the good shit and give it out for free?"

      "Well, how would they pay for the seeds, the equipment to water it and fertilize it, the land to grow it-" Dragonfly collapses onto the couch, as far away from the couple as she can get.

     "Free. All of it. Why not? Why's it all gotta be about fucking money? Food, houses, all the materials to give people stable lives. Free."

     "That wouldn't work. It's a nice idea, but the whole country can't be run on what it has now. We need imports-"

     "I'm talking about the _world,_ man. It's fucked, all of it." Dragonfly continues to crunch on her chips, mulling over the sorry excuse of a justice system in America.

     "You're right, it's all about money. And for what? Bigger houses, longer vacations, status? That's what should be illegal, hoarding money like it's a nonrenewable resource. Greed is _everywhere._ Like a fucking disease. They create these societies centered around wealth, and step all over the poor, use them as stepping stones to get even more of what they don't need. They pride themselves on keeping it away from everyone else. If people weren't so... so..." Aradia mimics throttling someone, and throws her hands in the air. _"Everyone_ could be happy. No one would be starving, dying of preventable diseases, living miserable lives because they don't have enough _paper_. But that's just not realistic, is it?" They all fall silent, contemplating the tragic state of mankind. A human's innate habit of narcissism and carelessness enfolds the entire planet, preventing it from making any spiritual evolution.

      Various conversations along the same lines occur as their camping excursion carries on. The insubstantiality of the internet that people live in and how it's changing the wight brain. How sad it is that we're becoming disconnected, brainwashed, petty. They laugh at the social constructs of gender roles and manners, how people blindly follow fake guidelines of a broken society. And they snort at the idea of a 'society,' invisible rules and etiquette that people are supposed to conform to or else be shunned. The illusion of a standard of beauty, as if everyone perceives in any similar way. As if a person's physical form, a gift one has little control over, determines allurement. True attractiveness is found in the way The Bee Guy casually dumps all of his spare change into a cracked plastic cup before sitting down to listen to a life story. It's in the wonder that spills from Aradia's eyes every time a bug graces her hand with its presence. In Dragonfly... the smile falls from her cheeks as she thinks of herself, and can't find a single drop of appeal. They don't understand when she abruptly leaves the campsite to nestle into her bed for the rest of the day.

      After the first week, in celebration of Bicycle Day, they all devow their claim to almost complete sobriety for a few tabs of acid. They wade into the lake naked, looking around at the trees and the clouds, recalling Dr. Albert Hoffman's discovery of LSD. The cold water takes their breath away, forcing them all to purge their mouths of words in favor of feeling the breeze on their bare skin. Nature around them accepts their speckles of imperfection, their stretch marks and discoloration. It wraps its warm waves around their waists, welcoming them back to their original homes. A deer stands on the other side of the lake, lifting its ears in caution. Through its eyes, there are only a few animals bathing in much the same way that it has seen many others do, and it walks away without a single clue as to who or what they could be, totally free of judgement.

      In a fit of passion, Aradia begs Dragonfly to go to rehab when they go back home. They've already reserved a bed at the clinic on the beach for when they get back. "I can't," she speaks to her friend as if something inside of her pulls her voice deeper into her throat. "I just can't. If not the needle, then it's benzos or crystals or alcohol. It's always something, I need it. I _can't_ be sober, it's the only thing that makes life tolerable. It's the only way I won't kill myself."

      "Baby, you _are_ killing yourself." She holds her old childhood friend close and rocks her. The Bee Guy splashes over to them noisily and hugs them both.

      "There's no point in me being here, being alive. It's all just too much. I can't do anything without help, I'm useless." She continues to berate herself, and they let her get it out, kiss away her tears. Then they destroy all of the self-hatred. Like a starving flower withering in neglect and deflecting all sunlight for fear of being burned, she soaks in every morsel of the love that seeps through their pores.

      It strikes her again how beautiful they are. All the effort and time and energy, the pure, genuine _love_ they've dedicated to her. These magical, cosmic angels sent down to protect and guide her. Maybe it's time she let them. She agrees to go to rehab, to try it out with no promise that she'll come out any better. They say they'll pay for her intake program, and then monitor her while she continues to go to therapy and helps with the bee business. It'll be hard for all three of them, but it would take scissors of diamond to cut the cords between them.

     Underneath the stars, they lay side by side on the cool ground, wrapped in blankets. If they look close enough, they can trace the curvature of the atmosphere and feel the earth spinning beneath them. They point at the north star and imagine a planet with intelligent life orbiting around it, pointing at the sun and the funny aliens that must be enjoying its rays.

     To be human seems special, a single bead of glittering intelligence in a dark, empty universe. The only species on a bright blue planet that has a name for itself, that has any understanding of anything at all. Our impact on the ocean seems huge, but nature doesn't care for us. It created us, and to think that we can control it is ignorant. We're microscopic in the grand scheme of actuality, and just as significant. In the eye of our own modest star, we're comparable to an atom. Through an improbable series of events, a molten rock grew life, from a single cell organism to a complex creature full of more emotion than it can contain.

      Books have been written on what happened in between, theories and essays and hours of research. Conspiracies have been formed out of the core need to live in a multifarious existence, of aliens turning us into something unique unlike anything previously seen on the new blue planet. Religions have been built from the belief that we were created in the image of a god that defies physics.

      And to a scientist with a lulling voice, Terence McKenna, it stands to reason that the Earth desired a mobile form. It grew fungi and plants and chemicals from its flesh for the apes to feed on, and those apes saw themselves for the first time. As they traversed African deserts, they marveled at the beauty surrounding them, sighed in awe at the magnitude of being alive. Enjoyed presence, contemplated the feeling of skin-to-skin contact, looked inwards at themselves in early scientific inquiry. Finally, the Earth could appreciate and experience itself. It only took a small fraction of time to create a being with a consciousness unlike any other, hollowed with a depth that's desperate to be filled. To become a human being. 

      The experience of a creature such as this is indescribably beautiful. We have made inventions that can look into an invisible realm with a tube and glass, or up at the moon to admire each individual crater. Kindness is overwhelmingly common, from a parent kissing their child goodnight, to entire movements storming through cities for fair treatment of all. Never mind the cruelty; everything in creation functions on balance. It may be harder to see, but it's there, every single day. In the eyes of lovers, in each coin in the tip jar, in each sacrifice of time. The more love one puts out, the more it receives. People are taught from a very young age to withhold their affection, to play hard to get and not be so clingy. If each child were taught to remind their loved ones of their gratitude every day, react to anger with gentleness and a listening ear, to treat their fellow beings as souls walking their own paths alongside them rather than competition to use and overcome - the world would be a much different place.

      Still, the fact that they occupy a physical form at all dazzles the lowly minds of our three familiar characters looking into the mirror of the sky. They reflect on their atoms, the empty space that fills them, and the illusion of solidity. They remark on the impossibility of anything at all, of existence or a concept beyond blank absence. Intuition dictates that nothing can simply appear into being. They wonder where the first particle came from, the confines of dimensionality, what incomprehensible reality lies beyond their awareness. Either somewhere along the line, something came out of nothing; something is simply an eternal concept, something they do not have the physical capability to understand; or, there is another force they cannot recognize. Something beyond interminability or continuance or reality, something much bigger. Somehow, against all feasibility, they found perhaps the only vessels carrying specks of awareness in a limitless dimension. If the universe is, in fact, infinite, then perhaps we are inevitable. Not special at all, just another number in a string of possibilities.

      The beauty is so overwhelming and shining so brightly in all of their eyes, that the only way they can express it is through physical touch. For the first time in months, they roll around each other, kissing and groping and sighing. Relief rushes into each of them as they peak; they've come back home as one.

      "We're a spirit family, you know." Aradia holds them on either side, glowing with the pulsating warmth between her legs. "We've known each other for many lifetimes, and I think that's why we work so well together. Our souls seek each other out every cycle, in some form or another. As siblings, parents and child, meaningful mentor. In any form, we find each other. I think others are part of our spirit family, too - Karkat, Kanaya, even the Joker - but us three... it's always _us_. I love you guys." She sucks in a breath, blinking at the bleary stars above her as they bury their noses into her neck and speckle her face with kisses.

      On the evening of their final day, with the setting sun as a warm backdrop, they all face towards the familiar campfire that has become a comforting friend. Aradia weaves strands of palm fronds into roses and sets them in a pile beside her. Bugs flit around the lights strung around the trunks of a few nearby trees, and frogs croak at them to notice their illustrious throats. Dragonfly plucks idly at Aradia's ukulele, slumped so deeply in her camping chair that her chin touches her chest. "There's so much sadness in the world..." Her face is twisted in pain, and she breathes deeply, as if each breath trudges through a thick weight. Part of her itches to go back home so she can get a fix, and weakly, she ignores it in favor of mulling over all the pain that encompasses their tiny planet. Better it than her.

      "Sex trafficking. Gangs. Murder. Just so much _evil._ I can feel all of it, and it's suffocating. As much I want to believe that human beings are inherently good, how can that possibly be true? And those are just instances, happenings, what about the systemic issues? We're _trapped_ in this system that only sees us as dollar signs. You can't just own a piece of land and live off it with your family. You have to have _permission_ to build a new roof on your _own house._ You have to have permission to _build_ your own house. You have to work eight hours a day in a job that makes you fucking miserable, and if you're thousands of dollars in debt you'll _eventually_ be able to afford your own house. Just so you can have a more comfortable place to live while you continue to be miserable every day so you can keep paying for it. It should be a basic human fucking right, to own a piece of land. And no one can touch you when you're on it. You can do whatever the fuck you want, not have to abide by  _anybody's_ rules. Just  _one place_ where you can be genuinely free from this oppressive society that doesn't benefit anyone but the actual fucking demons that walk our planet." Her chest aches for all of the people in her very own country with no home, the families that struggle to put food on the table. All of the vast resources that the world has to offer, but out of pure, plain greed, there are people starving and dying. Toddlers have somehow gotten control of the world. It hurts, that the one thing she and so many of her friends have desired is one acre of simple freedom.  

      The Bee Guy shakes his head and makes a sound of disgust. "That's the problem, there  _are_ demons. If everyone got a piece of land with no laws, people would kidnap kids, rape women, they'd sell guns and kill people. The rules in public spaces would be even  _more_ regulated and oppressive. There has to be some semblance of control because humans can't be trusted. They just can't be."

      "That's what our entire system is based on, distrust. The government doesn't trust us and we sure as shit don't trust the government. They really are demons, aren't they? And you'd think people would  _want_ to educate others, you'd think they'd  _want_ a society full of educated people, for their own benefit if nothing else. It should be free. Completely free, for everyone. Everyone should get the opportunity to a better life, instead of being trapped in poverty. It shouldn't be this hard. And look at the Native Americans! All they wanted was to be left alone, and they had to go and destroy their lives. All those displaced people, the extinct languages, lost culture. Shit, they put them in schools and tried to _force_ them to... to what, even? Be like them? Why?"

     "So they could control them," The Bee Guy says as he throws a few dry twigs into the fire. "That's what it's all about. They were free, and if they left them alone, they could revolt, cause all sorts of problems. Can't have your sheep climbing over the fences and running around to do as they please. Land of the free my ass."

      "Free as long as you let them steal all your money for themselves. And what the hell ever happened to separation of church and state? Why did Christianity become the religion of the world, anyways?" At Dragonfly's mention of religion, Aradia pauses her braiding before continuing with tight lips.

      "Jesus was just some poor hippie way ahead of his time, telling people to be nice, and then all these other dickwads went and wrote a book about it, adding in their own personal opinions. Like, yeah, sure, be nice to people - except the gays. Go ahead and kill those guys, for some reason. Some guy was probably pissed cause his wife ran away with some other woman who could actually make her cum. And nowadays, people just pick and choose what they want to practice." Dragonfly snorts.

      "Religion is just a socially acceptable excuse to be cruel. I don't get why people can't even entertain the idea that maybe they're wrong, for just a single conversation. Or why they go around trying so hard to convert people. Mind your own damn business and people wouldn't hate you so much. Always shoving their beliefs down people's throats, insulting them if they disagree. Killing people in the name of God."

      "Even if I did believe in God, I still wouldn't worship him. He sounds like an asshole. 'Praise me or I'll send you to eternal damnation. Live a life of misery to prove that you're worthy.' Poor Job, he got fucked over because God made a bet with his ex BFF and wanted to prove that his squad was loyal, like some petty high school drama. If I was Job I'd say fuck you and move on. Who does that kind of shit to people? 'Even if you're a good person, too bad, you didn't tell me how awesome I was at least once a week. Denied.'" He shoots his thumbs down towards the ground, sticking his tongue out. Aradia ties a very tight knot in a rose and throws it down harder than necessary.

      "It kills me, these people that believe God planted dinosaur bones in the ground. What's even the point of that, huh? It's like-"

      "Guys, I love you to death, but could you please stop bashing Christianity? It is arguably the worst religion of them all, sure, but most people that follow the Bible genuinely think they're doing the right thing. Not everyone is like the psychos that you see on Facebook. The internet brings out the worst in people." Aradia spits, keeping her eyes glued to her crafts. The Bee Guy and Dragonfly bite their tongues, both mentally agreeing to continue the conversation when they're alone. Aradia identifies as agnostic, believing that there is a little bit of truth in every religion. She defends Judaism, Islam, Buddhism; it's all sacred to her. Beautiful, even, that a connection with the cosmos is so ingrained in history, inherent in every person.

      They sit in silence as the fire fights away the falling darkness, accompanied by unpracticed musical strumming. When what little anger she's capable of feeling has dribbled out, Aradia says, "The Native Americans had it right, though. All foraging societies did. Do. That's what we should really be exasperated about. People think that agricultural societies are _so_ much better off, but we're really not. Besides money, _that's_ the root of all evil."

     "Well, I don't know about all that... It's pretty convenient to just go to the store and get what you need." She looks at Dragonfly in disbelief.

_"Just_ go to the store? You can't just walk into Walmart and take whatever you need. You have to spend _hours_ working, with unfair wages, little to no benefits to get enough pieces of paper to pay for basic necessities. And most people don't even _like_ the jobs that they spend eight hours a day in. They spend all day every day in absolute misery, working registers and waitressing. That doesn't spark passion, it doesn't cradle creativity, it doesn't-"

     "But we need them. It's fine to say that it sucks, and it sure as hell does, but what would we do without them?" Dragonfly runs her fingers along the neck of the uke, producing light notes.

     "The point is, those jobs shouldn't exist in the first place." Dragonfly makes a face at that, but remains quiet. "They exist because we live in societies with _millions_ of people in them. It's not natural. Walmart is a place that houses products that come from all around the world. Products that are born from horribly abusive labor systems, might I add... But there are small tribes out there with less than a hundred people. They make their own clothes - what little clothes they _do_ wear! Imagine being free to walk around with your titties out." Aradia grasps her own breasts in both hands for emphasis. "They catch and collect their own food, and if their neighbor is sick and doesn't have enough to get through the day, they share. Bee, we don't even know our neighbor's names!

     We're completely _alienated_ from each other. We're forced to live in overpopulated cities where diseases run rampant, never able to escape the presence of another person, and yet we don't _know_ them. Let alone _care_ about them! Foragers are able to walk side by side, talking and picking berries and catching fish for the day. And then they have the whole rest of the day to do _whatever_ they want. Carve some fat naked ladies, learn how to make some tools, spend time with their family. And everyone is equal, like have you guys heard of 'insulting the meat?'" The Bee Guy rolls his eyes. Aradia graduated college at a young age with a degree in anthropology; he has, in fact, heard of it. Many times. "If someone catches big game or a lot of fish, they degrade it and say it's thin, stringy - even if it's obviously not. Just to maintain equality. Isn't that amazing? We've been painted this image of feral tribes spending all of their time foraging for food, and still starving, but that's not the way it was. It's only like that _now_ because they can't be nomadic anymore. You can't go _anywhere_ without running into civilization, so they're trapped on dying lands that _other people_ destroyed! For _even more money!_ " Aradia huffs in irritation and tugs too hard on a string, ruining the whole flower. She sighs and throws it into the fire.

     "Yeah, agriculture is the reason there's so much disease in the first place." The Bee Guy leans back on his arms in the dirt, staring into the flames. "We rely on these carb-filled crops that have no nutritional value. That's why America's obese. Corn, potatoes, rice - you can't get away from the fuckin' things, and they're nothing but sugar. We don't live the active lifestyles that we used to, so it just builds up and makes us fat."

     "Exactly! For foragers, the entire _planet_ is Walmart! They have such a wide variety of foods, and they all have _much_ more nutritional value than our diets. It wasn't until agriculture came around that we started having so many health issues. And healthy food is _so_ inaccessible and expensive. It's _disgusting."_

     "Yeah, just, fuck the poor, I guess." The Bee Guy scoffs.

     "And you know, they don't even have to tell you everything that's in the food? The regulations on labeled food are pathetic, people have no clue what they're putting into their bodies. Mother nature has provided us with literally _everything_ we need." She has paused her crafting to passionately state her cause with concerned-filled eyes. "Food, shelter, tools, art. It's all _right_ outside our doors, and yet they're cutting down all of our trees for more _housing developments._ People sit in their little cement cubes and stare at digital screens all day. When they're not working for the man, of course."

     "Of course," The Bee Guy echoes.

     "We're like hamsters. Living in our cages and driving to different cages in our little hamster balls, running around these big wheels just for some dry, carb-filled pellets that we can't even properly digest. No wonder everybody's so goddamn depressed! It's an epidemic!" Aradia's voice has gradually grown louder. As she speaks, The Bee Guy smiles loosely, and Dragonfly sits up to listen intensely. "They're deprived of sunlight, of fresh air, I mean really, how much time does the average person spend outside? The few minutes it takes for them to walk between their car and a building? No _wonder_ everyone's so _goddamn_ depressed. Who do you know that's truly happy, huh? Anybody?"

     "Nope." The Bee Guy asserts.

     "No one..." Dragonfly whispers softly. The heaviness of the macrocosmic anguish seeps into her limbs like molasses.

     "The world is just full of too much distraction. Shallow magazines and celebrity drama and mindless YouTube videos. Keeping our minds numb so we can't revolt and distracting us from the bigger issues. Like the wars our government is trying to start, the people they're hurting and robbing. All just worthless distraction from the important things, like connection with ourselves, others, and nature, for example." She picks up a few more strands and fidgets with them distractedly.

     "But... we can't ever go back. Can we?" Dragonfly asks.

     "No. We can't." Aradia goes back to her flowers. "Too many people now, it wouldn't be sustainable. It would be impossible to stop the 'progress' of economies. You can't change billions of people's minds. Most of them don't even see a problem, they like their cubes and wheels and screens. We'll just keep going and going until there's nowhere on this entire earth you can go that hasn't been _used._ People are terrible anyways, it's naive to say I believe a utopia is possible. It's not. Which is frustrating, because it seems so simple. Love, kindness, caring, selflessness. But people just can't fucking do that. I can't understand it." She focuses on her work, taking a deep breath and sighing deeply. "Can't just go off into the woods and be left alone. Have to pay for land, have to pay taxes, have to do this and that. It's impossible to just find a nice field, build a house with whatever you can find, and... live. We're _forced_ into this system, into a structure that we're not _made_ for. It's literally _ruining_ us."

     "Well, but what about vaccines? If you're living off the grid, you can't really get medical help."

     "If you're not living with millions of people, you don't need them. That's why cities spread diseases so quickly, like the plague? If Rome was just a little tribe, maybe a hundred people would be wiped out. Medical help is all in the woods, baby. Plants, Dragonfly! You got herbs and aromatherapy and ointments."

     "And it's not like you can really go 'off the grid' anyways," The Bee Guy points out. "They know our every step. They have profiles for us, they have our DNA sequences. That's some scary shit, those DNA testing kits? Like, yeah, give your grandma the gift of our family's genetic information so they can fuck with us. If you really didn't want to be found, you'd have to have a lot of fucking money and resources."

     "They should teach this shit in school. I never took a government class that taught what _actually_ happens. Sure, checks and balances, bills and laws, how it's _supposed_ to work. But they should also teach about the corruption, how it _actually_ works. How politicians get away with things, how to analyze each candidate and figure out who you want to vote for. They should teach rights, how different laws affect your everyday life, what to do when you're arrested, how court works. And don't even get me fucking _started_ on the healthcare system." Aradia shutters.

     "Please," The Bee Guy scoffs. "They would never do that. They don't even teach history correctly. They only tell you about America, ancient Greece and the World Wars. I didn't learn _shit_ about Africa, South America, Asia, island nations. That's fucking pathetic."

     "And home ec.? What a joke. We made pancakes and played board games every day. What about learning how to write a check, how to save money? How to open a bank account, the different kinds of accounts, how to choose a bank, what all of the deals and laws around it are? Teach them how to cook and go grocery shopping, how to feed a family on a budget. If they're going to force us into all of this complex bullshit, the least they can do is teach us how to navigate it instead of leaving us completely ignorant. That's what they want though, isn't it? It's easier to use people when they don't realize they're being used... These poor kids are sent into the world knowing nothing. They know useless fucking trigonometry, but not how to buy a house. What the hell is up with all that math anyways? It's useless and it makes kids that aren't geared towards it feel dumb. I get wanting to teach critical thinking, but there are other ways to do it without crushing the souls of young kids that don't want to go into mathematics careers and probably never will!" 

     "That's because they wanted the U.S. to be the first ones on the moon. They changed the curriculum to be more science and math heavy and haven't changed it back. They're training their little soldiers to be engineers to better the country. That's all we are, anyways; pawns for the big guys on top."

     "What about, like, a self-care class?" Dragonfly pops the strings, leaning forward with increased energy. "Teach you how to regulate your emotions, be empathetic, solve conflicts, love yourself, eat healthy. How to take care of your health problems, maintain hygiene. P.E. should teach self-defense and like, survival skills. If you ever find yourself lost in the desert or the jungle, at least they'd have a _chance._ Oh, and sex education." The Bee Guy and Aradia both groan.

     "We had this bitch - remember, Bee? She came in preaching about abstinence and she gave this one girl a mint to suck on, and then passed the mint around so that everyone touched it. Then she held it up in front of the classroom and said, 'Now, who would want to put this in their mouth after it's been touched by so many different people?' And this kid walked straight up to her and popped it in his mouth." She applauds the memory and The Bee Guy laughs.

     "Oh, God. And she tried to tell us that girls should wait for guys to open doors for them, and tried to make all of us stay behind after class to hold the door open."

     "But instead the girls held the door open for the guys. What a fucking bitch, I still can't believe that. Abstinence is the reason the south has the biggest problem with teen pregnancy. Our kids don't _know_ anything. It's all hush-hush, keep it in your pants or you're going to hell. They should know about birth control, girls _and_ boys. How to choose them, how to use them, the costs, what they do to your body. They should teach them how to talk about sex with their partners, how to learn what their own bodies like. Tell boys where the clit is and that if she's tight, you're doing it wrong! Tell girls it's okay to want it, and boys that it's okay to _not_ want it. Teach them about the beautiful rainbow of sexual identities and the fluidity! These poor kids leave after fourteen years of school not knowing _anything-"_ Dragonfly sets the instrument on the ground beside her, interrupting with fiery passion.

     "And the _way_ they teach is bullshit. It's all about getting a good test score so the school looks good, not about learning. Shit, that's one of the reasons I dropped out. Each kid should have an individualized plan, the way they learn best, any support they need. _Fuck_ grades. And _fuck_ having to choose what career path you want to go into before you even get to college. Most people change their minds anyways."

     "Exactly. It's all messed up. And that's just here, it's _way_ worse in some other countries. At least we have some semblance of an education. At least our leaders still try to pretend like they're not evil." Aradia tightens up her last flower and sets it in top of the pile. She lies on her back, watching the sky burn red and orange.

     "Shit's fucked. The whole thing needs to be completely reconstructed. Every last bit of it." The Bee Guy leans forward to hide his face in his knees from the veil of smoke wafting towards him, blinking his stinging eyes.

     There's a moment of silence where they all deflate a little, reminiscing their school years. "So, then, what do we do?" Dragonfly asks.

     "Whatever we can." The Bee Guy shrugs and stands, wiping his face on his shoulder. He walks towards the little pyramid of logs in front of their cabin and collects a few.

     "That's why we have a garden. Most of what we eat is from our own backyard, but it's hard to maintain. The bees help. And we always talked about homeschooling our kids if we ever had any. We vote, sign petitions, donate. Treat people with kindness and understanding. Besides that, I don't know that there's really anything else we _can_ do. We planned on joining the Peace Corps. for a while, but, I don't know. Life got in the way, I guess. We still could." They sit in silence and watch as The Bee Guy throws a log onto the dying fire. A cloud of cinder puffs into the air. Little tentacles of flames reach out from underneath it, and it's gradually engulfed. "That's what I want for my kids. A house that's paid off. They don't have to live in it or keep it up, but when I die, if nothing else, I want them to know they  _always_ have a safe place to stay. And I want them to grow up barefoot and dirty, and I want to home school them. I'll teach them whatever bullshit standards they have to to get the right degree, or pass the GED or whatever so that they have a chance. But I want to be there with them as they grow up, showing them how to plant things, when and what for. Teach them about medicines and how they can live off their own garden. Teach them how to be independent. I want to tell my daughter that she doesn't have to shave any part of her body if she doesn't want to because it's _hers_ and no one is allowed to tell her what to do with it, not me, not boys, and definitely not greedy old men trying to kill women's self esteem to sell more products. I want to teach them the truth." 

      "You'll be a great mom, Aradia. I think we'd all be in better places if we had moms like you." Dragonfly says, and The Bee Guy agrees with a sad laugh.

     "That guy in California I visited? He lives on top of a mountain in a shack he made himself and grows pot." He throws down the second log, then kicks around the leaves and twigs to form a small pile. "It's literally a fucking tin can. He poured a cement base and just set up some wood sheets around it. He doesn't like, live off the land or anything, but he makes enough money selling weed that he's pretty well off."

     "Is it legal?" He shrugs again, and throws the pile on top of the fire. The smell of sweet burning leaves fill his nose.

     "Does it matter?" He looks at her, then at Aradia. They both appear forlorn and hopeless, gazing blankly into the night. "We already know how to maintain a garden, and bees. We could start our own dispensary. Grow pot, sell CBD products, and keep selling our honey and teas and soaps. But we could make a living off of it, like an actual business. I wouldn't have to work a boring fucking IT job. Aradia, you've got the green thumb so you could be in charge of growing and shit. I'd handle the finances and advertising. Dragonfly, you'd do the business, talk to people. You're good with legalese. We could actually like, employ people and have labels on our stuff."

     "I _have_ always wanted to go on a cross-country road trip to all the paranormal and haunted hot spots..." Aradia taps a palm frond flower to her chin in consideration.

     "You've always wanted goats too, right? We can get an old farmhouse and a big piece of land and have a petting zoo."

     "And Christmas trees? And an ice skating rink? And a haunted corn maze? And can we foster some fucked up kids and give them a loving home? And can we have a program to help at risk youth, or recently released convicts, or oh, what about an outpatient rehab program?" Aradia gasps at the potential.

     "Whatever you want, baby. It'll be a new beginning. For all of us."

     "Wait. Are you, like, actually suggesting we drop everything and run away to California to build a shack on a mountain and grow pot? Because I am _so_ down." Dragonfly bounces up and down in anticipation. The Bee Guy looks to Aradia, and she grins at him.

     "Let's go to fucking California!" She squeals, and lunges on him, planting a wet kiss on his mouth. Dragonfly tackles them to the ground in a group hug that devolves into laughter in the dirt. With the moon blessing them from above, they roll around each other and cement their plans to change their lives. Together.


	8. Terrapin Station: Terrapin Station

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This song is broken up into different parts, but it's still recorded as one song. I only added the lyrics for the specific part I wanted, Terrapin Station. jsyk

_[Inspiration, move me brightly](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3I7CLy70WtI)_  
_Light the song with sense and color,_  
_Hold away despair_  
_More than this I will not ask_  
_Faced with mysteries dark and vast_  
_Statements just seem vain at last_  
_Some rise, some fall, some climb_  
_To get to Terrapin_  
  
_Counting stars by candlelight_  
_All are dim but one is bright:_  
_The spiral light of Venus_  
_Rising first and shining best,_  
_From the northwest corner_  
_Of a brand-new crescent moon_  
_Crickets and cicadas sing_  
_A rare and different tune_  
  
_Terrapin Station_  
_In the shadow of the moon_  
_Terrapin Station_  
_And I know we'll be there soon_  
  
_Terrapin - I can't figure out_  
_Terrapin - if it's an end or the beginning_  
_Terrapin - but the train's got its brakes on_  
_And the whistle is screaming: TERRAPIN_

 

      The moment Dragonfly gets out of the eight week detoxification program at the local rehab on the beach, she cries. She sits on a bench outside the facility with her hands covering her eyes, her shoulders shaking. In her lap is a small backpack of her clothes and toiletries, and a printout of the journal they forced her to write. A burden at first, it became her tie to reality, guiding her goals and ambitions. In it is a list of things to do to make amends, to start getting her life back on track. As if it was ever on track in the first place. The first on the list: apologize. She's been sober for two months, longer than she has been since she was a young teen, and it's jarring being back in a clear mind. To wake up and not immediately hurt. Aradia and The Bee Guy buy her a cake, and they celebrate by watching movies and drinking root beer floats. When she apologizes to them, they cry with her. 

      Dragonfly calls her sister first thing in the morning, before she gets out of bed. It hangs up after the first ring, so she texts her, 'just got out of rehab. can i come over for a little bit?' Latula doesn't answer right away, and Dragonfly's stomach sinks. She waits a few minutes, propping her feet up on the wall beside the futon and bouncing them. Right after her sister, she knows she owes her parents a phone call. They haven't heard from her directly since last year's mother's day. As she picks up her phone again to call, her phone vibrates. 'Do you need a ride?'

      On either side of the kitchen table, the two siblings sit across from each other. It was on Latula's insistence that they use chairs and sit straight because it's 'more conducive to active listening.' Her hands are neatly folded in her lap, restraining herself from asking if Dragonfly is hungry, from pointing out the wrinkles in her t-shirt, that her cheeks hang out from the bottoms of her shorts. She examines her closely, running her eyes over her several times as she sits quietly, frowning straight ahead. Her hair is her natural blonde, cut to her chin, brushed and clean. Upon comment on it, Dragonfly says it's only because the rehab didn't allow it and she plans on dying the tips purple. The acne that before had sprinkled her chin and forehead has diminished to a few minuscule raised bumps on her temples. Her eyes aren't puffy, her nails are clean, her arms are open to the air and bear no tracks. "You look really good." Latula smiles in approval, relieved.

      "Thanks. It was... hard. But, um, I wanted to talk to you because..." Dragonfly shifts in her chair, looking to the side. "When mom and dad kicked me out the moment I turned eighteen, you said I could live with you. And I took advantage of that. I know you did all you could, and I'm sorry for how I treated you. I was just hurting, and I didn't know what to do with it except yell and get high. I took a lot of that out on you, and I'm sorry." She opens her mouth to continue, then closes it again and picks at the corner of the table. "But, yeah, thank you. For everything." Latula's eyes prick with tears. She blinks them away.

      "I know you were hurting, that's why I was trying to help you. I realize that my methods were probably not the best... I let you do whatever you wanted, and took care of you like you were a child. I don't know. I was just afraid that if I, I don't know... I was just worried about pushing you away and then you'd go off and get even worse. Which you did, and I felt terrible about it, but I couldn't bring that kind of chaos back into my life, do you understand that? I still love you, I just couldn't take it anymore. You really freaked me out with that... I don't even know what that shit was. I had to put myself first for once, you know?" Dragonfly nods, and she apologizes again. Latula nods back. The only sound is the hum of the refrigerator, and when that shuts off, Latula asks, "Why did you never talk to me?" Dragonfly is quiet for a long time, continuing to pick at the table.

      "Because you were the voice in my head telling me it was wrong, and I didn't want to listen to it. You always tried to force me into the real world when I didn't want any part of it. You made me feel bad so I just tried to not think about you, or what you said to me. You always talked down to me, made me feel ashamed and guilty." She rubs her arm and is quiet for another moment, before rushing to say, "Not that I'm accusing you! I know that I was a handful and you handled me the best way you knew how to, I still shouldn't have-"  

      "No, you're right. I was really harsh with you. I was frustrated that I didn't understand you, why you couldn't just be... normal. I took it out on you, too. I'm sorry." Dragonfly nods, and they lapse into another awkward silence. "You can talk to me now?" She suggests hesitantly. Dragonfly lifts her leg onto her chair and rests her chin on her knee, mulling over the question.

      "I don't know what to say, Latula. I just don't want what you have. I don't want to live a life like mom and dad, working the same job for the rest of my life, living in the same town. It makes me feel so _suffocated_ thinking about... all of the limitations in life. I want... I don't know. I don't know what I want. And I don't understand why you guys can't just accept that. It's hard for me to exist. It's uncomfortable being in my body. Waking up in the morning, and figuring out what to fill my time with. There's just _so much_ time. It never seems to end. That's why I couldn't stand being sober, being _here,_ in general. Drugs took me out of my head, out of my body. I feel like... I'm a little to the left, out of line with... the world, I guess. I don't fit into this body, this planet, this society. It's hard. I _can't_ be normal. I don't know that I'll ever feel _right,_ but I want to at least be okay with that. I'm getting there. I just need to find my niche, some way to get into the groove of things, you know? I'm still trying." Her voice is quiet and hesitant. She appears small, unlike the girl Latula remembers seeing last, the one that was all glares and shouting. The difference is startling, but unties a ball of stress in Latula's chest. 

      "That's good, wanting something different is one of the first steps. I'm _really_ proud of you, Terezi. Thank you for telling me that." She wishes her sister could see the pride in her eyes, but she puts as much into her voice as she can. Dragonfly's face scrunches up, and she takes a shuddering breath. In a shaky voice, she thanks her again, and sets her forehead to her knee, crying quietly. She hasn't heard anything but reprimands and insults from her sister in a very long time. Regardless of how much she tries not to, she looks up to the older Pyrope, and relief fills her. Latula smiles, swallowing hard against the few tears that run down her own cheeks. When they've both wiped their eyes, she asks, "So, what are your plans now?" Dragonfly smiles genuinely.

      "If I hang around here, I'd just fall back into the same shit. Same people, same endless cycles-"

      "Does this mean you're not going to any concerts anymore? No more tour?" She looks hard at Dragonfly, who hesitates.

      "Yeah, actually, I guess it does. Aradia and Bee haven't gone on tour in a couple years, and they only ever go to local shows. This is the last tour, anyways, and we'll be busy getting everything set up, so." Latula nods approvingly, and after a beat, Dragonfly continues, "Well, anways, they're taking their business out west, so, I'm going with them. We're going to northern Cali and opening a dispensary and growing our own pot and you know, bees and soaps and candles and stuff. The whole shebang. We're all going to be co-owners." Latula hesitates before answering, and Dragonfly's smile disappears. "You don't think it's a good idea."

      "No, no! I'm not going to discourage you. I know they know how to run a business and if they think it's doable, they're probably right. Starting any kind of business is risky, is all. It sounds like it's going to be a lot bigger than what they have now, and it's so far away from anyone that any of you know. It's going to be hard to get it up and going, and it might not be sustainable for a while. You know that, right? What are you going to do if it doesn't work out?" Dragonfly clenches her teeth together and turns her head away, glaring. The positive emotions from only a few moments ago shrivel and turn to dust. "You need to have a backup plan, sis, you don't know that it's going to work out."

      "I don't know what I'm going to do if it all goes to shit, alright?"

      "I just don't want you going down the same path-"

      "Maybe I'll just fucking kill myself then-" Dragonfly cuts herself off and takes a deep breath. Latula frowns and struggles to keep a lid on her own emotions. Much more calmly, Dragonfly says, "Sorry. You're right, I don't know if it's going to work out. Worst case scenario, we cut back to everything that they're doing now. We might be broke and in debt, but they have friends out there, too. They already have the equipment and the skills and a website. It'll be fine. I'd rather try and fail than just give up." Latula wants to argue more, but presses her lips together and keeps it to herself.

      "Okay. I hope it does work out, I'd like to see you happy again. Let me know when it's up and running, okay? I'll be your first customer." Dragonfly forces a smile.

      She didn't think their relationship would immediately be perfect, but the amount of work she realizes will have to go into it is already exhausting. She packs up the belongings she wants to take with her to California, while Latula tells her about her boyfriend that she's now going to ask to move in. Everything else will be sold in the garage sale the following weekend. This gives Dragonfly a small pinch of anxiety; if all else fails, it will be that much harder to fall back on her sister again. That just means she'll have to figure it out for herself. For once, she thinks she just might be capable of that. She lines the suitcase and backpacks in the driveway, waiting for her ride. Their family has never been big on physical affection, but before she leaves, Latula wraps her arms around her and kisses the top of her head.

      For the first time in a long time, optimism leaks into her smile, and hope for the future lifts her chin higher. Even The Bee Guy seems chipper as he drives them back home, going so far as to tap a single finger on the steering wheel along with the radio. They grin at each other, at the beginning of an adventure.

      Back at the house, bags and furniture are strewn about the yard and leaning against the side of a U-Haul. Aradia pops up from the stairs on the front porch, desperation in her eyes. Behind her, through the open door, they can see old friends from high school. Feferi sticks her nose in the air, arms crossed and back turned to him. Eridan clenches his fist in frustration, snarling as if he could appear intimidating in a pink collared shirt and scarf. They yell at each other about something predictably petty and stupid, oblivious to Aradia's discomfort. She storms up to the driver's window and seethes, "Let's get the car hooked onto the U-Haul and fucking _go."_

      Dragonfly replaces Aradia's seat on the front steps and listens to the bickering couple in the house. Nothing really changes after high school, she thinks; once those two broke up after a couple weeks, Eridan hasn't stopped pushing her buttons in one way or another. His rich family finally decided to quit supporting him, and since he refused to get a job, he's been living with her. It's a mystery how she's been able to handle it. Not very well, apparently. As soon as The Bee Guy mentioned wanting to rent out the house, she practically packed Eridan's bags for him. His 'lower class' job at Publix will be enough for the rent, electricity, and water if he ever learns to not stand under the scalding hot shower for an hour. Internet, fancy restaurants, and shopping sprees may be a luxury of the past. No one feels sorry for him.

      They shove all of their suitcases, camping supplies, and emergency items in the car with whatever else they couldn't fit in the small U-Haul. The next time they open any of the doors except for the passenger side, there will be an avalanche of junk. Even though they tried to pack light, the truck still threatens to burst with everything they're trailing to the other side of the country. Mostly tools for their candle and soap making, gardening supplies, all of the tech The Bee Guy has spent years tinkering with, small furniture. They turned all of the bees and chickens over to another trusted keeper, planning to start all over on the west coast. After saying goodbye, they pack into the cab, Dragonfly stuffed in the middle. Their home looks barren, even with most of the decor still in place.

      Undoubtedly, Eridan will let the plants die and rot, but hopefully he'll be able to take care of the cat until they can come back and get her settled in at the nice new house. It's bittersweet, maneuvering out of their tiny driveway and onto the street that has been their home for several years. Even more so as they weave through the small town they all grew up in. It carries their childhoods, their memories, all of their fears and dreams. They pass the high school where they met most of their friends they still know today, now with a bigger football field and smaller art program. The old park where they'd all meet up and smoke on the swing set, carving initials and broken hearts into the big oak tree at the edge. In the summer, they project old movies onto the side of the bathrooms; that's where Aradia and The Bee Guy had their first date. The lake where parties of teenagers would rage well past their curfews. The whole town fits neatly inside a bubble, where all of the same people still know each other and bounce around the same minimum wage jobs. It's stagnant, sucking the potential out of everyone who had the misfortune of being born here. Leaving is hard when you've walked ruts into the sidewalks all throughout downtown into the edges of the city limits.

      As they merge onto the highway, the sun already threatening to dip behind the wall of green trees, the bubble bursts. While they've all traveled the country many times, they have been mere visitors to other lands, temporary travelers floating through. This time, they won't be coming back. The ocean of semis, rest areas and travel centers opens before them, a wide open door to the next chapter of their lives together. With the windows down, they quietly reflect on their individual pasts and everything that has led them to this moment. Except for Dragonfly, who fumbles with her cheap earbuds, complaining about the shitty podcasts she'll be forced to listen to for a week straight. Always looking forward.

      First on Aradia's List Of Cool Things To Do In Every State is the Georgia Guidestones. Slabs of mysterious rock, just a single state away. There's very little in Florida they haven't seen, from the beaches to the springs and every inch of the Ocala National Forest. But, just for funsies, they call the number on one of the zombie Jesus billboards on the seam of the state, and listen to a spooky voice read them scripture until. In the last rays of the day, they stand in a field, empty except for five chunks of rock inscribed in eight different languages. The Bee Guy stands at the plaque, at the edge of the small dirt parking lot. He reads about the astronomical features of the rocks, the time capsule underneath the stones, then leans against it in boredom, staring out across the field.

      Dragonfly drags her fingers across the smooth surface of the granite, feeling the letters of each language as Aradia reads the ten commandments out loud. "'Maintain humanity under five hundred million in perpetual balance with nature. Guide reproduction wisely - improving fitness and diversity.'"

      "'Improving diversity?' Sounds like they're encouraging racial separation." The Bee Guy doesn't look up from his phone.

      "And a controlling government. I mean I get the whole one kid per couple thing in China for population control, but to regulate it like _that_...? Suspicious." Aradia nods and takes another step back to get a better angle.

      "'Unite humanity with a living new language. Rule passion - faith - tradition - and all things with tempered reason. Protect people and nations with fair laws and just courts.' Failed already."

      "So far we've failed each and every single one of these."

      "You're not allowed to comment unless you're going to put your phone away and actively participate!" Aradia sticks her tongue out at him and his middle finger, then turns back to the boulder. "'Let all nations rule internally resolving external disputes in a world court. Avoid petty laws and useless officials.'" They all pause to acknowledge that particular failure and laugh. "Balance personal rights with social duties. Prize truth - beauty - love - seeking harmony with the infinite. Be not a cancer on the earth - leave room for nature. Leave room for nature.'"

      They reflect on the commandments, examining the tombs one last time. They were erected by an anonymous man and funded by 'a small group of Americans who seek the Age of Reason.' Perhaps a cult, or an art piece meant to stir mixed feelings. Regardless of the reality, the granite records resonate with the energy of good intention. An Age of Reason may never come, but at least there are still people in the world who seek truth and balance. 

      "Hey Dragonfly, you should pick out a rock for me to paint. I'll put our names on it and we can leave it in Mississippi." At the suggestion, Dragonfly immediately drops to her knees in the gravel. She feels along the ground until she comes up with a chunk of cement the size of her hand. It's white and dusty, out of place among the gray pebbles, almost like an old shard of the slabs themselves. "What should I paint, Bee?" As they climb back into the truck, Aradia rubs the rock on her shirt. Dragonfly sinks into her seat with her head on The Bee Guy's shoulder and her legs tangled up in Aradia's foot space with her headphones blaring loud enough that they both can hear her audio book.

      "'Leave room for nature.'" Aradia hums in approval and digs through her on-the-go art bag. With her paint markers, she writes the quote in pink and white calligraphy. On the back, scattered among the rocky uneven surfaces, she writes their initials, date, and the Georgia Guidestones. She sets it on the dashboard to dry and leaves her hand on Dragonfly's thigh, watching the southern pines blur by.

      Only a few hours later, into Mississippi, they find a free national forest campsite to stay the night at. It's full, but after driving around the circle a few times, they make friends with a large group of college graduates who let them pop up their tent. They're local art students and jump on the chance to nibble on some chocolates for 'artistic inspiration.' Aradia thrives among them, wrangling them all into body painting. Everyone knows the rule: if someone falls asleep before taking their shoes off, they're fair game. The Bee Guy's worn out sneakers turned gray from years of working outside twitch as four bodies crusted with paint crowd around him. It's only when they streak cold paint across his stomach that he opens his eyes. Chase ensues, paint slinging onto the trees, laughter rising to the sky with the smoke of the dying fire. A ranger nags them to be quiet, and the students retire to their individual shelters. In a matter of minutes, the trio is in their pajamas, snuggled up in sleeping bags and blankets, giggling at the stars through the net of the tent above their heads. They're a little damp with sweat and sore from sleeping on the ground when they wake up. It's a familiar, comforting feeling. They have a smoky breakfast with their new friends, exchange numbers, and use a spigot to brush their teeth. Everything is packed just as fast as it was set up.

      Underneath the sign welcoming them to the next stop on Aradia's list, they set the Georgia Guidestones rock. There's a set of caves to explore, and so that Dragonfly isn't left out, they only attempt those with railings and smooth paths. It's cold inside, and their rented flashlights flicker as they climb. The Bee Guy nerds out about the bacteria and bats and other creatures that live inside caves, despite the seemingly impossible living conditions. Dragonfly teases him, and Aradia listens fondly. It strikes her that life is very fragile. 

      One cave in particular is known as the hub of Native American's ceremonies, called the Painted Cave. The walls are sporadically dotted with soot pictures, images born from berries. Some are obvious, people and horses and the sun. "Hey! Hey, hey, hey! I had a dream about that one!" Aradia points excitedly at a small sketch of ovals of increasing side stacked on top of each other. Lines shoot out from between each shape. "A little girl had been turned into some kind of flesh monster and all she wanted was a hug but she walked on her hands so she couldn't. I wonder what they intended it to be..."

      "Wow, that's crazy. Is it possible that they say the same things that the Guidestones said?" Dragonfly pokes at the ground with her cane, leaning against a large boulder.

      "Nah, it just looks like a bunch of guys were tripping on peyote or some shit and painting on the walls." The Bee Guy stands beside her, playfully kicking at her cane. She rams her shoulder into his, sending him flailing to the ground.

      As they bicker, Aradia closes her eyes and imagines being a Native American, wearing moccasins and a loin cloth, her breasts bare. It's colder deeper inside the cave, but there's a circle of natural sunlight from a hole in the roof, where the shaman sits. In that small shaft of light, it's warm. He sucks on a pipe and blows the smoke rings into her face as dancing people bang on their drums around her. Music seeps through the soles of her feet and filling her with warmth that spreads to the crown of her head. Longing tugs on her heartstrings, an old life from long ago calling her back.

      They buy a sticker from the gift shop and smack it crookedly onto the bumper of their car. Dragonfly picks a rounder, smoother stone than the last one, and The Bee Guy suggests the meat monster Aradia had seen in her dream. As they picnic in the grass in a field between caves, she paints. 

      Aradia drives most of the way to Alabama, letting The Bee Guy play games on his phone as Dragonfly listens to her books. When they stop at a gas station, her earbuds tangle around her feet as she steps out, and splinter on the ground. They let her play it over the speaker of her phone, but eventually ask her if they can listen to music instead. She agrees, but talks over the radio, incessantly, asking questions and taking off on rambly monologues. Large expanses of straight roads, busy with traffic, lead them forever forward, though it feels like they haven't moved an inch.

      They approach the Welcome to Alabama sign, and Aradia honks the horn erratically, whooping and weaving around the lanes. The Bee Guy slumps against the door in annoyance at the celebration. At the welcome center, they roll down a hill and and blow on dandelions, wishing for world peace and good luck and safe travels. Eventually, Dragonfly's fidgety blatherings spark The Bee Guy's irritation until he snaps at her. She slumps against the window with a great sigh, letting her teeth chatter with the vibrations of the truck. Within a few minutes, the CD starts over on its fourth play through of the trip. Every CD in the case has been played already they tell her, without looking; she sighs loudly and tosses it on the dashboard. She skips through every radio station available several times, until both Aradia and The Bee Guy tell her to knock it off. Again, she presses her cheek against the window and distracts her thoughts by counting the potholes they hit.

      Only a few hours later, just on the border of Louisiana, Aradia turns off the GPS. They turn off the interstate, into a small town with sparse, rundown buildings. Mostly closed businesses, churches, and trailer parks. RV'S are parked close to trailers with tarps wrapped around them; redneck renovations. A rusted red truck going twenty miles below the already excruciatingly slow speed limit is their only companion at the lone street light. The shirtless man driving holds up a beer can in hello.

      Looking at her phone as a guide, Aradia turns onto a rough dirt road, jostling Dragonfly awake. She dramatically clutches at The Bee Guy, who complains about having to pay for a ruined truck. Spindly trees and marshland surround them, creeping onto the scraggly road ahead. Darkness fills the holes that bounce them around their seats. At the end of the road is a chain link fence clipped with No Trespassing signs. "We've arrived at our hotel for the night!" Aradia giggles and turns the car off. In the brief flash of the headlights before they disappeared, a series of pointed buildings covered in vines and shattered windows loomed before them.

      "Oh _hell_ no. That is not happening, I don't care how big of a boner you get from creepy shit. How do you even expect to turn the truck around in here? What if a cop comes by? We could get arrested for this. I'm not going, this is bullshit." The Bee Guy crosses his arms in defiance as the girls get out. They ignore him in favor of taking out the camping supplies and a secret bag only Aradia knows the contents of. She leaves a flashlight on the seat beside him, and he watches her light beam bounce over the grass as they search along the edge of the fence. Their voices fade. He's left alone in the dark, unable to see anything but shadows, hear only the chirping of bugs. Stubbornly, he locks the doors and lays across the seats, glaring at the ceiling. The girl's spoiled, and he thinks about the stern talk he's going to give her about doing risky shit like this. A scream bolts him forward. With barely a thought in his head, he has the flashlight and is running through the tall grass, calling his partner's names.

      There's another scream. On the other side of the fence, he sees a pool of light pointing at a tall break in the fence. He ducks under it, stumbling on the cracked concrete, and sees Aradia and Dragonfly watching him calmly. "Hey, babe! Glad you decided to join us." As he gets closer, Aradia hears his panting breath. "Aw, were you scared of being all by yourself? Poor baby." She pinches his cheeks, but he knocks her hands away.

      "Don't you _ever_ fucking do that again, I am _so_ serious. I thought something happened. You nearly gave me a fucking heart attack." He glowers at them, but they only crinkle their noses at him.

      "What are you talking about?"

      "Screaming? To get me over here? Dick move." They gasp and look at each other with wide, excited eyes.

      "Bee, we didn't scream. I didn't even hear a scream, did you?" Dragonfly shakes her head.

      "Oh _shit,_ this is the real deal. Come on, come on, come on, let's go!"

      They link arms, dancing through the empty, overgrown parking lot towards the main building of the abandoned hospital. It's wide and tall, with a spear in the center attempting to strike God. A wing on the side is caved in completely, scattering debris across a wide open field. The Bee Guy follows after in uncertainty, looking up at the empty sky for guidance from the moon. Nothing hangs where it should be except wisps of dark clouds that obscure the few pinpricks of starlight that can barely be seen. His ears flex and twitch as they walk. There's a narrow street edged with a series of small, squat buildings with Victorian architecture. Weeds sprout at their bases and between the bricks, pulling their collapsed roofs back towards the earth.

      Under a broken, rusted directory sign, Aradia sets their rock from Mississippi. The girls argue about where to set up camp for the night, and The Bee Guy turns in a slow circle, observing the shards of broken glass and trash strewn everywhere. On a sole standing wall, a giant penis has been spray painted with a load of red jizz coming out the tip. It looks like blood. Next to it is a small anarchy symbol, and various sloppy tags. "Help us out here, where would you rather go, Bee? Surgery or hospice?" Aradia turns her flashlight to The Bee Guy's back. He keeps it towards them as he answers.

      "Hospice is guaranteed to have ghosts, but probably just old people. Surgery could have more interesting ghosts, if we get any at all. Either way, I think something is going to happen. I have a weird feeling about this place."

      "Oh, I know!" Aradia digs through her backpack and comes out with a small case. She kneels on the ground to pick through the electronics inside of it. "Have you guys ever heard of a spirit box? We'll ask the ghosts where they are!" She pulls out a small device that looks like a walkie talkie. It spits out waves of loud static.

      "When the hell did you get a ghost hunting kit? You didn't dip into our savings to get it, did you?" She ignores him and skips ahead of them towards the main building, talking into it.

      As they get closer, the field comes into more detail. Hundreds of crooked white crosses bud from the ground, unmarked. A good portion has been buried underneath the building spilling onto them, and yet some still stand, flashes of triumphant white amidst the destruction.

      Despite the muggy Spring night, it's cool inside. The moment they step through the doorway into the lobby, it grips them. In respect of the moment, Aradia turns off the spirit communication device. They stand, listening to the silence. Even the trilling of bugs and howling of wind are imperceptible. Piles of trash are strewn about the waiting area, pieces of the ceiling where the floor above them collapsed. Colorful graffiti covers the walls. In the center of the room is a ring of rocks, and powdery wooden logs. Beer cans are grouped around it, beside a stray bra. Quietly, so as not to disturb the building's peace, The Bee Guy asks, "When did this place shut down, anyways? And why?" Aradia turns the box back on, and they slowly weave through the garbage, towards a stairwell.

      "It was abandoned in the late eighteen hundreds because the owner was a sick bastard. It was a female only hospital, and he was eventually convicted of all sorts of charges. Kidnap, rape, murder, torture. If a patient came in for something as simple as a rash, he would somehow deem them deathly ill, or mentally unfit, and he'd keep them against their will." Single file, they climb the narrow stairs. Dragonfly runs her fingers over the peeling walls and the bumpy wooden handrail. "After thirty years of keeping women, and having them die suddenly - usually by suicide - they finally did an investigation. It's true, all of it; they caught him in the middle of forcing a patient to give him a blow job. He looked the lead investigator dead in the eye as he came, and he smiled. Then he jumped out the fourth story window, and was impaled on the grave markers." On the next floor, they scan their flashlights down a long, dark hallway littered with wheelchairs, gurneys, unidentifiable equipment and furniture. They let the heavy door slam as they continue to climb. "That's why that part of the building is destroyed; some of the townspeople came by with explosives after it was evacuated, intending to blow up the entire thing. But, supposedly, the explosives went off without anyone detonating them. It killed about fifteen people. It's been left here to rot ever since."

      "That sounds like a load of shit to me." The Bee Guy pulls on the handle of the door leading to the third floor, but it doesn't move. He pushes, and it gives just a crack. All three of them push against it, managing to open it enough for a peek down the hallway. The Bee Guy's flashlight stutters as he points it inside. He bangs it against the door frame and aims again. A large shelf lying on its side blocks the door, crowded by more junk. Sweeping the beam across the floor, he describes what he sees, then abruptly stops. At the end of the hall, almost too far for the light to reach, is the figure of a person. They stare at each other, unblinking. "And, uh... a coat rack or something. Suspiciously in the shape of a person."

      Aradia elbows him out of the way, snatching the flashlight from him. He backs up, frowning as she peers in. "I don't see anything. Dammit." She holds the spirit box inside. "Is there someone here who would like to speak to us?" They listen to the waves of white noise. Dragonfly's hand presses into The Bee Guy's back, her shallow breath brushing across his cheek. "We're very open minded, we just came to visit and-"

      Behind her, Dragonfly screams and The Bee Guy wrenches Aradia backwards. There's swearing and shouting as they scramble up the next flight of stairs, tripping and stumbling. The next floor doesn't have a door, and the hallway is relatively clear enough for them to pick through. Dragonfly tightly clenches The Bee Guy's arm to her chest, even as he tries to shake her off to climb over a pile of fallen desk chairs. "Stop! Everybody _stop!"_ Aradia throws her arms out and they both freeze. "What are we running from?" They look to Dragonfly. She shrinks into herself.

      "I thought I felt something touch the back of my neck."

      "Thought?" The Bee Guy slumps his shoulders.

      "Well... I mean, it might have just been the breeze, or a bat or... a moth..."

      "A moth." He yanks his arm away. "We were running from a moth." He rights a chair and plops into it, rubbing at his face.

      "It was a tense moment! You had _just_ said you saw something, and we were waiting for a ghost to answer so when I felt something behind me, yeah, I fucking screamed! You were the one that started running." They bicker, and Aradia takes a moment to look around.

      The directory points to the office of a doctor whose name has been scratched over and defaced, right beside the electroshock treatment room. She shuffles down the hallway, noting the sounds of the outside world weaving through the hum of the device in her hand. Leaves tremble in the wind, enticing her closer, until she stands at the edge of a cliff. Below is the rubble of the owner's office, spanning farther out than she had imagined. An ocean of still chaos. Dozens of women who were betrayed, forced into psychosis, and forgotten.  

      "Don't get too close." The Bee Guy calls out. She takes a few more moments to savor it, then starts back towards them.

      "The electrotherapy room was right around here. We should set up camp right..." She huffs as she kicks and shoves away furniture and debris, clearing a spot big enough for the canvas. "Here." Dragonfly throws the bag on the ground and leans against a wall. "You set up the tent, Bee, I'll get the ouija board ready.

      "Ouija board? The fuck?" The Bee Guy kneels on the ground, watching his girlfriend as he sets up their bed for the night. She borders their small camp with salt, pushing away more trash and lining the walls. She guides Dragonfly inside and closes the circle. The Bee Guy pulls out the ouija board and a large chunk of rose quartz and a smaller amethyst, setting them on the edges. He grumbles as he sets small white tea lights around the front of the tent, around the board. "Alright, we got your creepy seance set up. I'm not participating. Don't burn the place down." He lays back on the sleeping back, wrapping one of the small blankets around himself and turning on his side.

      Aradia burns a bundle of sage and waves it around their small stake of territory, doing away with the evil spirits and energy. She sits across from Dragonfly, their knees touching, the board between them. With their years of practice together, they easily slip into their serious communication with the dead personas and cast their mental protections around their psyches. Slowly, they move the planchette in a figure eight. "Hello, if there's anyone here who would like to speak to us, we give you permission to use our hands to move the planchette and speak to us. You may not use any other part of our bodies or energies." They continue to swirl around the flimsy board, waiting. Beside them, the spirit box crackles. After a few more lines of prompting ghosts, Dragonfly sighs.

      "Can we at least stop moving this thing around? Maybe they can't grab onto it."

      "I thought that was you moving it." Dragonfly straightens up. "If there's a spirit attempting to communicate with us, could you please move the planchette to yes?" Their fingers stop moving, then stutter towards the sun. "Yes..." Aradia breathes. "What would you like us to call you?" She watches intently and calls out the letters that the ghost spells out. "D-T-R-F-G. I'm sorry, I don't know how to pronounce that. Is there something simpler we could-" It zips to the no in a fraction of a second. A voice moans out over the communicator, inaudible. Dragonfly huddles closer, pressing her legs harder against Aradia's. The spirit refuses to say anything more, so they say goodbye and close the reading.

      They get a few more garbled sentences that may or may not have been the radio leaking through, only able to make out a handful of names. One of the comprehensible conversations they manage to have is with a woman named Wanda, who died of falling down the stairs. She repeatedly chanted the word 'accident' while swinging the planchette between yes and no.

      The other conversation is brief. No name is given. It quickly moves their hands across the board, over the same letters again and again: U DIE. Aradia firmly stops the movements and assertively tells the spirit to leave. They say goodbye, and end the session.

      Dragonfly is energized by the conversations, but Aradia is drained. It's mostly her own psychic energy they play off of. She can still feel it sparking up her spine. She blows out the candles, turns off the spirit box, and leaves everything as it is before curling around The Bee Guy's back. Dragonfly follows behind her, shifting and wiggling around. The silence brushes out the hair on the back of their necks, sensitizing them to every groan of the settling building. It takes a long time for any of them to fall asleep in the pitch black, feeling both claustrophobic and vulnerable. When sleep finally does find them, it is fitful and burdened.

      Stuck between sleep and wakefulness, Aradia's eyes barely peel open. A light from her side tugs at her attention. Beside her, The Bee Guy sits up straight, soft white light emanating from his eyes and spilling over his calm features. Her eyes slide closed again, and when she next opens them, he's much closer. White light drowns her foggy vision, blinding her. Close to her ear, he breathes, "An end must come to us all. It is written in the light." She opens her eyes. The Bee Guy's face is close, his eyes even with hers. They're open, but he doesn't respond to his name. Frantically, she shakes him, sitting up. Both him and Dragonfly wake, groggily asking what's wrong.

      "Sorry, I just had a nightmare. And you were sleeping with your eyes open. I thought you were dead." They wrap their arms around her and bring her back down to the ground, pressing in close.

      In the morning, as they pack away their belongings, Aradia is unusually somber. She tells them about the dream, that she feels as if something is going to happen to them. They assure her that it was just the vibes of the hospital, that it was maybe just a ghost trying to prank her, that she'd have to be insane not to have nightmares sleeping in an abandoned hospital right after playing with a ouija board. "It felt so real. I could feel the breath on my face, the light hurt my eyes. And then you were just _there._ With your eyes. Just like in the dream." They pack quicker. On the board, the planchette is poised over the number seven, which gives Aradia pause. She's fairly positive they left it over the goodbye, but reasons that it must have been bumped as they stood up. Even so, the number is lodged in the back of her throat. Melted wax and salt are the only traces of themselves that they leave behind.

      In the light of the sun, the small hospital village is significantly less spooky. Nothing _too_ dramatic had happened, much to their disappointment. They have come out unscathed, save for a general feeling of anxiety. Dragonfly picks a chunk of cement from the rubble of the fallen wing, and The Bee Guy suggests, predictably, a ghost. Aradia lets The Bee Guy swear while trying to turn the truck around, using her pinkie finger to smear a black figure onto her canvas. She gives it two white eyes, lets the paint drip down.

      "When I die, I want to be buried under a new tree. No coffin, they're a waste of money and space and good fertilizer. Treat it like the corpse party it is! Dave would like my dead things in jars collection, don't you think? And Kanaya should get my art supplies. I'm not sure about the rest yet... I'll figure it out. What about you guys?"

      "When you die in sixty years you're gonna have totally different stuff. Why worry about it now?"

      "I want to be cremated, and then I want my ashes made into food that's served at the funeral. And all the eulogies have to have hints about how delicious I was. 'Her spirit will be moving through us all in the next coming days...'" Dragonfly snickers.

      "I don't really care about my funeral, I won't be there. Pick through my shit and see if there's anything you guys want, I guess. Donate it, burn it. Whatever." The Bee Guy sits deeper into his seat as they merge onto the highway and settle back into their rhythm. "Actually, you know what, you should give my computer to Karkat so I can haunt him when I'm a ghost. Watching him fume over my codes and cry cause he feels guilty for calling his dead friend an asshole? Top notch entertainment right there."

      Aradia tunes out their conversation to look out the window, peering into the cars streaming around them. Her mind wanders to her partners' funerals, the sounds of sniffling and hearts pinging against the tile. The light in The Bee Guy's eyes dances before her. In it, she feels a looming sense of unease and inevitable melancholy. It hangs around her like a heavy blanket. When they pass the Welcome to Louisiana sign, Dragonfly leans over to bang on the horn, shouting and shouldering Aradia until she joins her, already starting to forget the negative omen. There's a whole highway ahead of her, and she plans on enjoying it as if she really were soon to die.


	9. Eyes of the World

_[Right outside this lazy summer home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vCy9k_RWlvA) _  
_You ain't got time to call your soul a critic no._  
_Right outside the lazy gate of winter's summer home,_  
_Wond'rin' where the nut-thatch winters,_  
_Wings a mile long just carried the bird away._  
  
_Wake up to find out that you are the eyes of the world,_  
_The heart has its beaches, its homeland and thoughts of its own._  
_Wake now, discover that you are the song that the mornin' brings,_  
_But the heart has its seasons, its evenin's and songs of its own._  
  
_There comes a redeemer, and he slowly too fades away,_  
_And there follows his wagon behind him that's loaded with clay._  
_And the seeds that were silent all burst into bloom, and decay,_  
_And night comes so quiet, it's close on the heels of the day._  
  
_Wake up to find out that you are the eyes of the world,_  
_The heart has its beaches, its homeland and thoughts of its own._  
_Wake now, discover that you are the song that the mornin' brings,_  
_But the heart has its seasons, its evenin's and songs of its own._  
  
_Sometimes we live no particular way but our own,_  
_And sometimes we visit your country and live in your home,_  
_Sometimes we ride on your horses, sometimes we walk alone,_  
_Sometimes the songs that we hear are just songs of our own._  
  
_Wake up to find out that you are the eyes of the world,_  
_The heart has its beaches, its homeland and thoughts of its own._  
_Wake now, discover that you are the song that the mornin' brings,_  
_But the heart has its seasons, its evenin's and songs of its own._

 

      A sloppy, homemade cake sits on the coffee table in front of Dave, slathered in sprinkles and a messy 'congrats' in pink icing. He frowns at it. "Congrats on your promotion, Davey! Next thing you know, you're gonna be manager, and then you're gonna take over the whole joint yourself. I did the icing, do you like it?" Roxy rests her chin on the top of his head from her position on the couch. Subtly, he scoots out of her reach, leaning away from the front of the sofa and her overpowering flowery perfume.

      "It's dope, thanks," he says plainly.

      "Are you allergic to nice gestures or something? That was the most pathetic 'thanks' I have ever had the misfortune of hearing. My ear drums are withering with disappointment. And what about Kanaya, doesn't she get a thanks for laboring over the damn thing all afternoon?" Karkat muscles him out of the way to sit behind him. 

      "It was in a box, actually. It only took fifteen minutes." Kanaya smiles at him kindly.

      "It just seems a little... much. Like, wow, I got promoted from dishwasher to host and got two cents added to my paycheck. Let's just go ahead and erect a giant statue in my honor for people to goggle at years in the future like, 'Wow, papa, what did this dipshit do to get a statue of himself?' And daddy will be all, 'Absolutely nothing, son. That's all it takes these days. Just be a lazy sack of shit and you're golden.' Also, I was going to quit soon anyways." He says the last part hurriedly. "Anyways, sick cake, thanks Kanaya-"

      "You're _quitting?"_ Karkat's angry breath is hot on the back of his neck. He sinks deep into the floor until he's laying down, his legs jutting out from the other side of the table. Karkat sticks his head over to scowl down at him. "If you were already going to quit, why did you accept the promotion? Or did you decide to quit _because_ you got a promotion? Is that it, you're scared of commitment, don't know what to do with all that barely-above-minimum-wage money you get every two weeks? I promised my manager you'd be a long-term worker, and it's barely been two months. He's going to kill me."

      "Dude, I always planned on quitting before summer. I've never missed a tour since I was fourteen, and it's their last one. I'm not gonna stay here and play house with y'all forever. It was always temporary, and I never _asked_ you to do anything for me." Dave's own glare stings Karkat, forcing him to lean back and pretend to be more angry than hurt.

      "It does show a concerning lack of foresight. They are not likely to give you another position in the fall, after tour ends. What will you do then?" Kanaya asks. Dave sighs in irritation and opens his mouth to sling an immature metaphor around to deflect, but Roxy's hand whips out, presses on the back of his head and slams it down into the cake. He struggles to breathe through the icing, and when she frees him, vanilla pastry crumbles out of his nostrils. The living room is drenched in chocolate when he opens his eyes. Everyone freezes in stunned silence, watching as he licks his lips, wipes it from his eyes. Just as Karkat begins to rave about the mess and the disrespect, Dave digs a hand deep into a corner of the cake.

      Around a mouthful, he says, "Go ahead, guys, it's great." Roxy squeals in glee and digs two hands in, shoveling it into her mouth. Kanaya smears a finger into the icing and delicately sucks it away. The face plant successfully diffuses the tension, and everyone puts the argument to the back of their minds to enjoy the rest of the evening.

      Except Karkat, who mentally plays the scene over and over, trying to find the root of his inexplicable hurt. He scolds them as he hands out paper plates and silverware, which are all disregarded. Searching the cake for a slice that no one has shoved their grubby fingers into, he frowns. Finding none, he sighs and digs into the cake directly. With a fork, because he's not a heathen. None of them have ever had a home-made dinner together, preferring frozen meals and cereal to keep them alive. At the first excuse to show off his cooking 'skills,' Karkat scoured the internet for simple recipes. He had been excited, but now he seethes as he layers the lasagna, his self-hatred and misunderstanding of his own emotions boiling. When he accidentally burns himself on the dish he bought that afternoon specifically for this very selfish, abhorrent lasagna, he curses and jumps around the kitchen until his face is red. Kanaya takes over for him, and he sits in the living room, pouting. They eat in awkward, forced conversation. Roxy swings between appearing oblivious to the tension, and actively stoking the flames. She pokes at Karkat playfully, nudges Dave with her foot and tells them to kiss and make up. Neither of them respond or look at each other.

      "Karkat, will you help me with the dishes?" Kanaya takes Dave's plate, and Karkat takes Roxy's. As they stand beside each other at the sink, Kanaya whispers, "I know that you are upset that Dave is not going to be staying with us anymore, but we are still going to give his gift to him tonight, aren't we?" He scrubs harshly at a chunk of stubborn cheese.

      "What gave you that impression? I don't care if that asshole stays or goes back to the streets or becomes fucking president. Why would I give a shit?" They scrub at the dishes, and when they're done, Karkat turns on his heels. Kanaya follows him to the bedroom.

      Roxy snuggles onto the couch and Dave sprawls out on the floor, blankly watching the cartoons that dance across the muted TV. Karkat pointedly ignores him as he storms by, Kanaya in tow, back to their rooms. Tension, avoidance, a slip of the tongue, another fuck up. Karkat's usually mad at him about something, but this time is different; it's quiet, and he's trying not to show it, rather than throwing it in Dave's face. He has the familiar feeling that he's about to be kicked out creeping up his spine. Roxy throws a couple of mushroom chocolates wrapped in foil onto his chest, startling him. She wiggles her eyebrows and sits back, munching on her own chocolate. "Nice place you're livin' now, gotta say. Can I see your room?"

      "You're lookin' at it. That's my bed, right there." He nods at the couch, peeling his gift. If he's gonna get kicked out anyways, might as well go all the way. Without thinking, he shoves the whole thing in his mouth, and turns his brain off, forgetting about his dumb roommates. He slips the other one in his pocket.

      "Oh, whaaat? You've been here so long, I thought you finally settled down."

      "Nope." They're quiet as they separately munch on their treats.

      "I have a spare bedroom at home, you know. When you get back from tour-"

      Karkat's screeching voice interrupts her. "Not that you deserve it, but we can't return it so here you go, asshole. Congratulations on your promotion." Karkat marches into the living room with a large, sloppily wrapped present, suspiciously in the shape of a guitar. Dave narrows his eyes at it in suspicion. It's probably some crappy case they found in the dumpster filled with newspaper. Kanaya watches with apparent kindness, Karkat pouting beside her, glaring at nothing in particular. Dave hesitates. "Are you waiting for a cordial fucking invitation? Open it." Dave slowly unwraps the present from the neck down to the body, revealing a soft case with straps on one side so he can carry it like a backpack. He unzips it slowly, and stares down at a shiny guitar. "I got tired of taking you to the Guitar Center every weekend just so could sit in there like a tool for an hour and play, so Kanaya and I split it half and half. It's used, and was actually pretty cheap. It has a big scratch on the back, but," Karkat shrugs. Dave sits in silence, turning it over and running a hand down the long scratch in the light wood. "What, is it not good enough for you?" 

      Music being the most important thing in his life, Dave's been feeling emotionally itchy without something within reach to get lost in. No one has ever gotten him a gift more expensive or genuine than a t-shirt. He can't understand why they've given him a goddamn _guitar,_ all of the implications and possible intentions _._ Roxy squeals, demanding he play something for them. Mindlessly, he pulls the instrument into his lap, tuning it by ear. He strums it a few times, looking down at it in befuddlement. "Well, that was just thrilling. Great little party, guys, but it's about time the _real_ celebration starts. Will somebody help me get the refreshments out of my car?" Roxy starts for the door, and Dave scrambles to set the guitar back on the case and follow.

      Karkat scoffs, bending to zip it safely back in the case. "Sure, we get him a nice gift and he just leaves it in the middle of the floor. Told you he didn't deserve it. And what the hell does she think she's talking about?"

      "Oh, did I not tell you? I told Roxy she could throw a party at our house." Karkat rubs at the bridge of his nose.

      "Douche bags and drunks invading our space, just what I want right now. Perfect way to end this atrocious day. Thank you, Kanaya, and Roxy, and yes, Dave too, for working collectively to make this the best goddamn day of my life." He slumps on the couch, watching Dave and Roxy drag in multiple coolers of alcohol.

      He listens to the two joke back and forth in the kitchen, Dave clearly avoiding him. The house gradually fills with strangers, friends, and the cashier that's usually at the gas station down the block, for some reason. Music blares from someone's shitty portable stereo, broken up every now and then by the same repetitive ads. Karkat doesn't move from the couch, though a red cup finds its way into his hand and its contents down his throat. Abruptly, the music is cut off. It causes a few glances and pauses, but there are otherwise no acknowledgements.

      To Karkat's surprise, Dave falls onto the cushion beside him with his new guitar on his lap. Someone sits beside him, on the arm of the couch, and the table in front of him. "Dude, I was going crazy without my guitar, you have no idea. This guy right here gave this to me today." He jabs a thumb in Karkat's direction and laughs lightly. Karkat watches him play a few songs, chat with those around him and the growing crowd. His shoulders are relaxed, the forced blank expression replaced by a genuine grin. The pupils of his eyes are blown wide, revealing only a ring of blue around them.

      "What happened to no drugs in the house?" Karkat asks grumpily when everyone has turned away from Dave to enjoy their own conversations. Dave slaps his hand on the strings to stop the vibrations, and looks over at him.

      "I thought you were going to kick me out so I figured, fuck it, might as well have a good time while I still have a place to live. But then you brought out the guitar and I was like shit, but because I was obviously going to be high, I thought that you were for _sure_ going to kick me out because of that. _Are_ you going to kick me out?" He doesn't seem worried, and in fact, to Karkat's annoyance, he still has a trace of a smile.

      "Why would I kick you out?"

      "Because I'm high."

      "We're at a party."

      "I got high before I knew there would be a party."

      "Why did you think I was going to kick you out before, then?" Dave drags out a long 'uh' and picks at the strings distractedly.

      "I dunno. Because you seem really pissed at me. I don't even know why, honestly, I'm just moving out. I would've thought you'd be more pissed if I said I was staying forever." The music comes back on, and a few people shout in victory. "Do you want to go outside and talk?" Karkat nods and waits as Dave puts his guitar away, and stows it in Karkat's bedroom.

      Outside, there's a small fire with a few people milling about, talking quietly. Karkat sits on a nearby stump, staring into the flames, as Dave guides a wheelbarrow beside him and collapses into it. He leans over the side, resting his chin on his hands and staring at Karkat expectantly.

      "I'm not pissed at you. Well, I mean, I am. I've built a relationship with my boss over the last few years, and I told him he could trust my word that you'd be a good worker. And..." He shrugs and shakes his head, swirling around the small amount of liquid in his cup.

      "But, that's not really what you're upset about it." Karkat shakes his head again, but offers no other explanation. If he doesn't even know why, he isn't going to take the time to explain it to someone else. Especially not him, and especially not when he's tripping. Dave hums and leans back in the wheelbarrow, almost tipping it over. He pops a hand up triumphantly, and hands over a misshapen, half-melted blob wrapped in tin foil. "A conciliatory mushroom chocolate, just between bros. For being the insufferable asshat I know I am, I am truly sorry." Karkat rolls his eyes and sighs.

      There's really no reason for him to be upset, and no point in trying to come up with one. If he can handle himself at a chaotic concert, he can handle anything in the comfort, safety and familiarity in his own home. Hell, it might even help him chill out. He takes the offering and takes a few small nibbles of it. Only Dave's face from his nose up can be seen from the edge of the wheelbarrow, peeking at him with a grin in his eyes. "Mind giving me a little privacy? It's not a public fucking show." Dave laughs and falls back, letting Karkat finish his chocolate in peace. Everything's fine between them, easing his mind, if only a little. This is fine. No pressure, calm environment. Easy peasy.

      Except, mushrooms are entirely different than acid. He learns the important lesson that many - but not all - people eventually do; drugs are not to be played with.

      Less than half an hour later of one-sided conversation, Dave stops himself. Realizing Karkat has been uncharacteristically silent, he peers over the side of the wheelbarrow, at the top of his head, and pokes him lightly. "Hey, come here often?" His smile immediately disappears when Karkat looks up at him. His eyes are wide, glistening with tears. Tracks run down his cheeks as if he had been crying for several minutes, at least. He licks his dry lips and opens his mouth to speak, but his voice is only a quiet crackling. Dave leans down further, asking very seriously if he's okay.

      "I'm disappearing." The short sentence ends with a sob and Karkat buries his face into his hands.

      "No! No, you're not disappearing!" Dave assures quickly, patting his shoulder stiffly. "You're right here, I can see you and feel you and hear you. You're real, the realest dude who's ever got met."

      Karkat takes a shaky breath. His mouth opens and closes, sentences started and abruptly ended. He manages to breathlessly explain, "It's all dispersing into the air. Into everything. I'm blending in with everything else and I'm turning invisible. I'm disappearing. I can feel each particle just... floating away." His trembling hands wave out in front of him, and he watches his own fingers twiddle in the air and fall back to his knees as if they belong to someone else.

      "Man, that's just the unity. It's beautiful. You're blending in with everything because you _are_ everything. You're not disappearing; you're becoming One. With the air, the trees, the stars." Their eyes meet, Dave's filled with euphoria, Karkat's with alarm. Not that either of them can distinguish such; in the low light of the fire, their faces smear and shift confusingly. "Your atoms aren't disappearing or moving away, they're... they're just there, like they always have been. There  _is_ no line between 'you' and everything else, there never has been. You're just feeling reality. The space between you and the air? Doesn't exist. Gettin' all quantumly untangled, your ego's dying, whatever you wanna call it. It's cool!" He smiles as if this is something amazing, but Karkat's chest tightens with fear.

      "I'm dying?" Dave laughs.

      "No, dude! If anything, you're just waking up. You'll come back, I promise. Just enjoy the experience, it's a rare one. Everything's okay." Karkat looks away from him and deeply into the fire.

      The darkness from the night swallows him and pushes away from the fire pit until it's only a small speck far in the distance. All of the sound, the gentle night breeze, the hushed voices of those around them, the muted music from the house is sucked away. He's gone, reduced to a spectator, a bodiless _thing_ floating just above the small gathering, somewhere outside of reality, somewhere quiet. It's cold here, and empty. So empty, and far away, and dark-

      "Yo, you alright?" Dave's voice startles him, slamming him back into his body. He looks up at his friend, close - too close - with his eyebrows furrowed in worry. He's in a lawn chair he doesn't remember sitting in, simultaneously too big and too small to fit him. Sitting front of a fire growing taller and hotter, creeping over the rocks around the perimeter and reaching for his feet. Surrounded by people who look at him with bulbous eyes, their voices pressing against him, crawling into his throat, choking him, suffocating him. "Alright, come on, let's go." Dave stands in front of him with his hand extended. Compared to the aliens around him, his face is smooth and clear, the features a familiar break among the chaos of the softly twisted trees around him. Without quite realizing what Dave has said, Karkat takes his hand and allows himself to be led into the house.

      Inside, music fills his nose with an undetectable odor that makes him nauseous. Unlike acid, everything is still, yet warped. Hundreds of eyes sliding up his legs, underneath his shirt, stroking his face. Kanaya sits on the couch miles away, but when their eyes meet, he can feel her breath on his face. The hallway is dark and cold, damp. He realizes that the house was bright, like the inside of an oven, and hot.

      The door of his bedroom closes behind him, and there's sudden quiet. He has the sense that there is nothing beyond this room, that they have stepped into a portal back home. Finally back somewhere familiar. He stands just in front of the door, watching Dave dart around the room, stacking pillows, turning the lamp on for a soothing, warm glow. Reality is still harsh, screaming at Karkat in detailed high definition, but there's less to process here. There's no wondering about the posters, if the sheets are clean, what could be in the drawers. He remembers each movie represented on the walls, knows for a fact that he did the laundry only yesterday, and there's nothing in the drawers but clothes, nothing to worry about. No one to stare at him.

      Instead of watching the slowly morphing wood of the bedside table, it's easier to follow Dave as he cocks his head to the side, trying to figure out how to turn on the oil diffuser before walking away, muttering to himself as he closes the blinds. Satisfied with his work, he faces Karkat with what he hopes is a comforting smile. "I'm gonna go get some water. What else can I do for ya?" Karkat shakes his head slowly. "You're good, dude, I promise. Everything's a-okay." He flashes a thumbs up.

      As he opens the door, streams of the bright world of the outer dimension filter in, and then it's abruptly cut off. Back to silence. Beyond the reach of the lamp light is fuzzy darkness most profound. Karkat shuffles into the illumination and sits on the bed carefully, waiting for it to sneak out from underneath him. It is by far the most comfortable thing his cheeks have ever had the pleasure of caressing. He crawls into the covers, cocooning himself in the big blanket - _oh,_ that's why they call it a comforter - and buries his face under the pillows. But this, too, feels like too much. It's so soft that he melts into it, but he's too stiff to fight it. The mattress twines through his limbs and out of his skin, as if he's a vine wrapped around a tree. Just as he begins to worry about how he's going to breathe, he hears the door open and is instantly back on top of the mattress.

      A body is suddenly thrown on top of him, and Dave sighs loudly. "Oh, _gee,_ I sure wonder where Karkat could possibly be." As Karkat struggles to free himself, Dave locks the bundle of squirming blankets in a tight hug. "Oh well, guess I'll just have to nap in his bed without him." Karkat stops writhing and responds no further, so Dave wiggles underneath the blanket and pulls it over his head. He faces Karkat, imperceptible in the dark, and sniffs around dramatically. "Dude, it smells like ass under here, when's the last time you washed this thing?"

      "Fuck you, it's hard to find a washer big enough for it." His voice is a bit strained, and he realizes his jaw is clenched tight. He moves it around to loosen it up.

      "How many times have you masturbated under these covers, and just let it crust there?" Karkat untangles himself from the blankets, just enough to poke his head out. Dave follows him out into the open air. "You know, I've had to masturbate in some interesting places. Like, every bathroom downtown. During Thanksgiving while everyone's still at the table eatin' dessert. When I walked in everyone joked about why I took so long and I had to be all, 'I was taking a dump, obviously, it just went right through me.' And they were all-"

      "Please shut up." Dave stops talking and grins at him. It seems like the dumbest thing in the world to do - smile. When reality itself is falling apart around you, and you feel simultaneously so big you might absorb it all within you, and so small that you'll float away on the cosmic winds alongside oxygen molecules... how can you do anything except cling desperately to what little piece of you is still attached? "What do you keep smiling for?" He snaps. Dave shrugs simply.

      "Dunno. Just happy to be here I guess." They stare at each other. Karkat finds the eye contact grounding, something solid to hold onto. Proof that he still exists, that he's still here. That he hasn't disappeared completely. His fingers search under the covers, bumping clumsily into Dave's chest, feel up and around his shoulder, down his arm, to his hand. Dave's eyes widen at the contact and his grin drops, but he doesn't pull away. Karkat presses his own hand against Dave's, palm to palm, and sighs in relief.

      "Just making sure I'm still the right size," he whispers. Dave laughs a little breathlessly, pulling his hand away. His heart is beating fast, but that's probably just from the drugs, he reminds himself. "I'm a word that you've said so many times it doesn't make sense anymore. Nothing makes much sense." He sighs heavily, pulling the blanket up to cover his mouth.

      "You know, it's funny, the way you described it earlier," Dave says after a few moments, turning onto his back to relieve himself of Karkat's piercing stare. "'Dispersing into the air.' Owsley described it in a really similar way."

      "Who?"

      "He was part of the Dead crew. Helped with their sound stuff, recorded stuff. Made belt buckles by hand. Made some of the purest LSD, like, ever. Cool guy. He freaked out on acid once and said he was turning into 'gaseous nothing.' That he had turned into a single cell and lost control." Karkat has a hard time following his words, but the last sentiment resonates with him; he nods eagerly. "He thought he was going to die, and he just said fuck it, that's fine. Then drove into a ditch, had some deep, meaningful spiritual insights and all that jazz. Mushrooms are tricky, though, it's always hard to remember that you're tripping, but you're not dying, you know that, right?"

      "Obviously. I'm just losing control." Dave nods and glances to the side. Karkat is still fixed on him, completely gone, lost in the sauce if you will, which makes him chuckle. He rubs at his face and thinks about where he can take this conversation.

      "What would happen if you _let_ yourself lose control?"

      "I'd _disappear._ That's what I've been saying this entire time." Dave holds his hands up in surrender.

      "I know, I've been listening. I just mean, like, what does that mean, exactly? Are you afraid that you're going to just cease to exist?" Karkat nods. "Okay, that's a legit fear, but bro, what exactly is disappearing? What _are_ you?" Dave lets him think about it for a moment. It's a delicate situation, and he knows that he should probably just distract Karkat and keep him calm. This could go wrong very easily. But he's never seen anyone so blasted on so little, especially someone so impressionable. He doesn't want to scare him, but he also wants to see how far he can push him into understanding. Karkat blinks, his eyes floating around in their sockets as he searches for an answer.

      "I'm... a body. And I'm a consciousness. I don't want to lose my sentience."

      "Right, but you're body isn't _you,_ it's just your container. Something that you control and use. It's easy enough to hold onto, tangible. But it's just a body, flesh made out of molecules - it's not _you._ So you're consciousness, alright, but what is sentience except synapses firing around a loaf of meat that's aware of itself? Nothing but a series of electrical impulses that gives the illusion of awareness." Another pause for processing. "You never existed in the first place."

      I can't describe to you the experience Karkat has in this moment, but I can try to explain what happens. He does, in fact, disappear. Falls ass first over the precipice into dissolution and profound understanding after several long moments of deep contemplation. It's something he gradually forgets as he comes down, but like Owsley, the heavy feeling of vague comprehension sticks with him for the rest of his life. Something solid yet flexible roots itself inside of him. More reliable than the ego, truer. It's easier to loosen his tight grip, easier to let go. It occurs to him that this is probably why he has such a large stick shoved so far up his ass; it's exhausting trying to dominate something that can't even be grasped.

      His features eventually relax. "Oh," he says lightly, as if it's a simple solution to something he can't believe was ever a problem in the first place. Can't disappear if you never existed at all. How obvious. Dave smiles. 

      "Yeah, you get it. Fuckin' crazy, right?" Karkat turns onto his back, matching his breathing to the breaths of the ceiling. It never seems to end, the gentle swaying of the fabric of reality around him. Even when he closes his eyes, he can feel himself being pushed along by waves. Only Dave's face is relatively still and definite. He turns on his side again to look at him.

      "Have you... how did you..." It's still difficult to speak, to collect a coherent string of thoughts together and somehow shove them out of his mouth. He isn't sure how to ask, or quite what he's asking, but Dave knows the answer anyways.

      "I've never had control of anything. Life's been pulling me along by the balls my whole life, so I'm used to just going along with whatever happens. I ain't afraid of disappearing, in fact I'd  _like_ to disappear. You think I like being alive? Think I like being me, living my life? I lean into it, welcome the chance to take a fucking break. It's exhausting thinking you exist. You're kind of a control freak, no offense, so it makes sense that the transition would be a little harder for you." Karkat just nods, watching him as he continues to ramble. "But it's just ego death. It's like the part of your brain that holds your sense of self is deactivated, or something like that, I don't know. We're all just spirits, you know? Before we were humans, we were formless, interdimensional beings, and psychedelics can be a sort of gateway, I guess, back to that state." He sits up and leans against the headboard so he can use his hands as he talks. "It allows us to separate from our earthly vessels and just... be. Or so I've heard. I don't know how much of that I actually believe, but when it happens to you, it's hard to not think _somethin's_ goin' on. It shows you what you really are, without all that fake shit blurring your perception. And then when you come down, the light just... flips back on. Like nothin' ever happened." Karkat nods again and they both fall quiet.

      He examines Dave's lips as they move soundlessly, his eyes reacting to the speeding thoughts in his head senselessly. His habit of muttering to himself under his breath usually bothers Karkat. Now, he only wonders what he's saying. "Hey, Dave? Why are you giving up your job to go on tour?" Dave looks down at him and wrinkles his brows.

      "I'm not 'giving up' anything. Tour is what I _do_. Everything else, the rest of the year? Bullshit. Can't stand it. It's hard and boring and uncomfortable. If I could, I'd live on tour. It's a break from the rest of all this shit. But I just, can't. It wouldn't be the same, anyways." They're quiet again, listening to the sporadic laughter and yelling of the party outside, the next dimension leaking into theirs.

      "I was upset because it hurt my feelings that you don't care about just fucking off and forgetting about me." Dave sinks into the covers and turns on his side to face him. "Well, initially I was hurt by you. Obviously. But I just got caught up in my head. Spiraled. Like I always do. I thought I was helping you get back on your feet, but you were just using me to keep doing the same shit you've always done. I thought I..." He shrugs, never breaking eye contact. Dave looks away from the glaring vulnerability.

      "I'm sorry. That's kind of what I do. I come through everyone's lives like a tornado and fuck everything up, it's what I've always done. There's no fixing me, Karkat, I'm broken, and I'm sorry I let you think that... I don't know, that there was anything you could do about it. I'm not your problem. Trust me, your life will be much better without me around, anyways."

      "My life was better  _with_ you around." Dave meets his eyes again. They stare at each other intensely. 

      "You should come on tour with me." Karkat immediately scoffs.

      "My job is getting me through college. I've been working there since I was in high school."

      "Exactly. You're close with the owners so they probably wouldn't mind letting you take off for a couple months and coming back, right? And you're going to be graduating next year and moving on to some better, fancier job helpin' some poor, fucked up kids-"

      "That's not really how it works."

      "Okay, well, point is, they'll take you back. And even if they don't, so what? Aren't you bored yet of doing the same thing all the time?"

      "You mean of having security and a consistent income? Not really, no."

      "Come with me, it'll be fun. It's your last chance, ever. There ain't gonna no more tours after this one, Karkat, you _have_ to at least try. We can talk all about it before we go so you can do all of your obsessive preparations and get your 'soothing mental mantras' sorted out. I'll even help you write them, how about that? I'll write you a goddamn song and sing it to you every time you get anxious, yeah?" Karkat smiles loosely. It eases his mind that Dave still wants to include him.

      "Yeah, sure, alright. I'll think about it." Dave clenches his fist in victory.

      "Sick. It's gonna be awesome, dude. You're gonna be an acid head _and_ a dead head by the end of the summer. I'll tell you all about the songs and their lyrics cause it's super cool, for real. And I'll introduce you to so many cool people, and we'll see the whole country. There are only two states I haven't been to; Alaska and Hawaii, what's up-" Overwhelming affection and gratitude clench in Karkat's chest.

      "Can I give you a hug?"  

      Appalled, Dave immediately replies, "Dude, no." 

      "Why?" 

      "Why do you want to give me a hug? That's weird." 

      "What? You think hugs are weird?"

      "Well, between two grown ass guys, yeah." They look at each other in mutual uncertainty. 

      "I think that's pretty normal, actually. I've seen you hug men before, when we went to the Dark Star show." 

      "Yeah, cause that's how I slip drugs into their pockets, dude." Dave shifts uncomfortably under Karkat's narrowed eyes. 

      "I think it's weird that you think it's weird. Who told you it was weird?"

      "No one. It just  _is._ If you want a hug, I can go get Kanaya. I'm sure she gives great hugs."

      "When's the last time you hugged someone? Like, genuinely, for physical contact, not just because it's what's expected of you?"

      "Man, I don't know. Christmas? I guess?"

_"Christmas?_ Dave Strider, what the hell, that was more than  _four months ago_. Goddamn, Dragonfly really meant it when she said you never wanted to have sex with her, didn't she?" Dave groans.

      "Can we please not talk about her? Four months doesn't mean shit, that was the first 'real hug' I had in... damn, years."

_"Years?"_ Karkat sits up, horror on his face. He says Dave's name softly. He realizes how young he is, at least a year younger than Karkat, but how old he looks. His chin is scruffy with a patchy attempt at a beard, his eyes always guarded and searching, waiting to catch something from the corner of his eye. Dave has had a rough life, and there's a lot he doesn't know about him. Despite the facade he puts on, how well he can take care of himself, handle seemingly any situation, cool under any amount of pressure, he's just a kid. Someone who never had much guidance or support, no one to trust or rely on, no one to teach him the basics of how to take care of yourself. Not the rugged, experienced guy that seems so much 'cooler' and 'better' than him, who had more answers than questions. He's just a lost kid, barely scraping by. 

      "Don't fucking look at me like that. It's not a big deal." 

      "Can I please give you a hug?"

      "No."

      "I really want to hug you. Please?"

      "No."

      "It's not like it's the first time you've touched me-"

      "No."

      "But when we went to the concert-"

      "No." Karkat huffs and crosses his arms, scrutinizing the bedspread. They sit next to each other, glowering. Karkat opens his mouth to press further, but before he can say anymore, Dave interrupts, "Fine."

      "Really?"

      "Yeah, whatever. Sure. I guess." He doesn't move. Half-turned away, arms crossed, cheek facing him. Karkat rises on his knees and shuffles closer. From the side, he loosely drapes his arms around Dave's shoulders, resting his chin on his head. One hand squeezes his shoulder, and the other runs up and down his arm. Dave feels his face contort, his eyes grow blurry with tears. After barely two seconds of gentle hugging, he roughly tugs Karkat's arms away. "Okay, that's enough. I - I can't do that. Touching. I just can't, okay?"

      "But I don't understand. At the concert you-"

      "Can we just drop it, Karkat? Please?" There's desperation in his eyes, fear and anxiety. Karkat can't even begin to fathom where it comes from. 

      "Yeah. Sorry. And thank you." Dave is stiff and tense from the embrace. He can still feel the ghost of Karkat's fingers, and something tugs in his chest to have that feeling back. What kind of touch-starved freak _is_ he? He sneaks a look at Karkat, who smiles at him warmly, completely nonplussed. 

      He looks into Dave's eyes. They're a deep blue, with wisps of gray just around the pupil, but now they're just black pits surrounded by rings of water. Karkat recalls from one of his classes that the longer two people look at each other, the more trust they build between them. He thinks of how much trust he's put into Dave since living with him, how much he's learned about him and how much he still doesn't know. As much as he can't seem to figure the guy out, now, as they look at each other with their earthly vessels shed, he feels as if Dave is the only thing in the world that makes sense. Two naked souls seeing each other in pure vulnerability. There's something in two people looking at each other, not saying anything. Silently examining each other in the same moment, thinking their separate thoughts. A special kind of intimacy. Briefly, he cups Dave's face in his hands. Before pulling away, Dave's eyes flutter closed and he leans into the touch, a soft look of yearning pulling at his features. He gently removes Karkat's hands, but doesn't look away.

      Silently, they both realize that there's something there. More than just a moment of drug-induced familiarity. Something deep and important and full of potential starting to unravel around them, pull them in.

      Karkat thinks that it has never been so easy to love someone, and as soon as the thought enters his mind, he wants to push it away. Instead, as he continues to scrutinize Dave's features, he explores it with openness. Regardless of what it means, of how it will play out, in this moment, there is nothing but utter love for the person before him. Love is an innocent, pure emotion, no need for labels or strings. He's lucky to feel it at all. This is okay, he thinks. It's okay to love him, and not worry about in what way, if he feels the same. They're just two ghosts seeing past the illusions that bind them, feeling something beautiful.

      Across from him, Dave battles his feelings, significantly more sober. Vulnerability wraps around him, leaving him exposed to Karkat's searching gaze, picking through his soul with ease. Naturally, Dave settles on pushing him away, as he does with everyone in his life. Put on a movie and they can talk about bullshit that doesn't matter until Karkat falls asleep. Then he'll sneak out, and they never have to talk about it or look each other in the eye ever again. It's the easiest thing he can do, but he knows he can't go back to simply unseeing him, to unfeeling his chest pressed against his side. For now, he'll allow himself a rare moment of being seen, and let morning Dave put those walls back in place. Karkat's gentle eyes are too much to ignore. He wants to tell him that he'll never forget about him, that he's the most unforgettable person he's ever met. But he restrains himself.

      Out of patience and divine guidance accompanied by only a little fear and insecurity, they move beyond the moment, tuck it away for themselves. It's a small, delicate blossom that isn't yet ready to be verbally acknowledged. Dave makes some kind of inappropriate remark, and Karkat pretends to be angry about it. The party and the world outside of the bedroom disappears. They watch silly movies and pause it to debate about semantics, bickering like usual, as if nothing between them has changed at all. When they can no longer feel their individual atoms vibrating, they fall asleep facing each other, nearly touching.

 

      Sunbeams penetrate the fog of sleep that has settled over the bedroom. Dave turns away from the window, and blearily blinks at Karkat's back. He's curled into the fetal position with a pillow drenched in drool cradled to his chest. A smile drifts across Dave's cheeks as he recalls their night spent together, immediately followed by a frown. It's a sweet, unfamiliar feeling too clogged with baggage to make much sense of. Stretching quietly, he lets his mind drift wherever it wants, contemplating the movies they watched, how close Karkat's knee had been to his own, the new guitar. Slowly, he creeps out from under the covers, tip toes to the door, sets his hand on the knob. "Good morning." Karkat raises up like a zombie, hair tousled and eyes half-lidded. "Where are you going?" He asks through a yawn.

      "Um. I'm gonna make breakfast. Any requests?" Karkat sits there, swaying sleepily with his eyes closed. It's so painfully endearing, Dave clenches his fists to keep from smiling.

      "Waffles." His voice is raspy with sleep. He flops back onto the bed, disappearing in the blankets and pillows. 

      Dave slips out of the room and into the kitchen, where he stands with his hands on his hips, realizing he's never made waffles before. Or anything more complicated than replacing the packaged cheese in easy mac with shredded cheese. "This is stupid..." he mutters, kneeling on the ground to rummage through all of the cupboards for the waffle maker. He leaves them open as he goes, then sifts through the cabinets hanging from the wall, and still comes up empty. He stands again, turning in a circle to examine the counters.

      Kanaya swoops in with her matching pajama set, her short hair sticking in all directions. She fills the coffee pot with water, and inquires as to what he's looking for. She pulls the waffle maker from the top of the fridge, and the pancake mix from beside it. As he flits around the kitchen, struggling to follow her instructions, she munches on a banana and watches. Two roommates disappearing into a bedroom, and one emerges in the morning to dance around the kitchen making breakfast for the other... hm. He sulks as he flips the bacon, and argues under his breath as he fills two mugs with coffee. One is completely black, and the other so full of sugar and cream it might as well be milk. His stomach curdles with anxiety as he remembers again his number one solution; run away. Right this minute would be ideal, quickly grab his bag and his new guitar, and never speak to either of them ever again. The green light switches on, and he slowly pulls out the first waffle. With it is a batch of bacon, and he gives the plate to Kanaya.

      Even as his body screams at him to run away - that Karkat has been manipulating him to make him feel this way, that he's still just riding the high from last night, that's what drugs do, right, but he knows that with mushrooms in particular, they really just show you feelings you've been trying to ignore, and god dammit he made such an idiot of himself, he's such a freak - he pours another cup of batter into the waffle maker and closes it. The worst feeling that reveals himself in this moment is that he doesn't _want_ to leave. That what he wants is to look into Karkat's eyes, to play him the song he's been writing in his head for weeks, to tell him about his twisted childhood. He wants to share himself, his life with him.

      He sets the next plates on a hand painted tray covered with bees and flowers, signed A.M. in the corner. Aradia once gave him a bracelet made of bamboo she made, carved with symbols he forgot the names of as soon as she told him. Unsurprisingly, he lost it somewhere in the black hole of his life. He's never wanted to share anything with anyone. He stares down at the food, at the domestic connotations. Dread fills him. This cannot possibly be happening. What even _is_ happening? Though he's more one to suppress his feelings than obsess over them, the thoughts keep careening into each other despite his efforts to stop them. _Just stop thinking and go. You've already made the damn breakfast, just act cool. They'll go away._ As he holds the tray and starts towards the bedroom, he pauses. It'd be so much easier to just leave.

      "He would like it very much if you brought him breakfast in bed. He loves cliche shows of affection. Keep that in mind." Kanaya smiles at him over her coffee, and Dave realizes she might have gotten the wrong impression. He opens his mouth to clarify that it was a completely platonic bro sleepover, but then thinks that maybe she _wasn't_ thinking that and it would just seem like he was covering up what 'actually' happened. God dammit, he's spiraling. He's turning into Karkat. Why is that the only thing he can think about? Fuck this. Fine, he can admit to himself that maybe temporarily he had feelings for Karkat that resembled a crush. But he's just lonely and a little desperate for companionship, and just because Karkat's the first person he may have shared any kind of vulnerability or semi-mutual physical touch with doesn't mean he's _actually_ into him. Shrooms make you over-emotional and feel connected with everything, that's literally what they were talking about. He's still swimming in a bit of a high, that's all. It has been awhile since he's been sexually satiated; jerking off in the shower can only do so much. He can move past this and forget about it. "You have been standing there for an awful long time. Is everything alright?" Kanaya raises a brow at him.

      "Yep. Never been better. So good. Amazing. Just... wow." He whistles, shakes his head in disbelief at how theoretically wonderful he is, and continues down the hallway.

      Full fuck it mode has been activated and nothing can stop him now. Doesn't matter how weird he acts, what he says, does. Just go with the flow. _Fuck it._ Numbly, he pushes the door open and steps inside. Karkat sits on the edge of the bed, staring out the window with his phone in his lap. He frowns when Dave sets the tray between them. Dave freezes until Karkat picks up his plate and starts picking at his food. They sit beside each other in silence, taking small bites of their breakfast. Dave avoids looking at him, bouncing his leg as he struggles with his conflicting thoughts and feelings. The coffee doesn't help, staring up at him from the black depths of hell in mockery.

      On the other hand, Karkat is not really thinking much about Dave or last night at all. He had, when he was still groggy with sleep and internally slapping himself at how pathetic he was acting last night. And also silently thanking his trip sitter for somehow always knowing exactly what to say, for showing a part of himself that Karkat knows few have seen before. Enjoying the high of a new crush. Of course, he knows it will never lead to anything, no matter what the look in Dave's eyes last night may have said. Easier than he possibly ever has, he moves passed the assumed rejection. He pauses with a forkful of waffle just before his lips and says, "I have a button up you can wear. We're going to a funeral this weekend." After the phone call, none of it seems to matter much at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my top five GD songs. I could jam to it anywhere, anytime. I want it tattooed across my forehead.


	10. Estimated Prophet

_[My time coming, any day, don't worry about me, no](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MQs22Kt-vZk) _

_Been so long I felt this way, I'm in no hurry, no_

_Rainbows and down that highway where ocean breezes blow_

_My time coming, voices saying they tell me where to go._

 

_Don't worry about me, ah nah nah, don't worry about me, no_

_and I'm in no hurry, ah nah nah, I know where to go._

 

_California, preaching on the burning shore_

_California, I'll be knocking on the golden door_

_Like an angel, standing in a shaft of light_

_Rising up to paradise, I know I'm gonna shine._

 

_My time coming, any day, don't worry about me, no_

_It's gonna be just like they say, them voices tell me so_

_Seems so long I felt this way and time sure passin' slow_

_Still I know I lead the way, they tell me where I go._

 

_Don't worry about me, ah nah nah, don't worry about me, no_

_and I'm in no hurry, ah nah nah, I know where to go._

 

_California, a prophet on the burning shore_

_California, I'll be knocking on the golden door_

_Like an angel, standing in a shaft of light_

_Rising up to paradise, I know I'm gonna shine._

 

_You've all been asleep, you would not believe me_

_Them voices tellin' me, you will soon receive me_

_Standin' on the beach, the sea will part before me_

_Fire wheel burning in the air!_

 

_You will follow me and we will ride to glory, way up, the middle of_

_the air!_

 

_And I'll call down thunder and speak the same and my work fills the_

_sky with flame_

_and might and glory gonna be my name and men gonna light my way._

 

_My time coming, any day, don't worry about me, no_

_It's gonna be just like they say, them voices tell me so_

_Seems so long I felt this way and time sure passin' slow_

_My time coming, any day, don't worry about me, no_

 

_Don't worry about me, ah nah nah, don't worry about me, no_

_and I'm in no hurry, ah nah nah, don't worry about me, no._

 

      The rest of the trip goes by in a flurry of highs and lows. Despite it not being Mardi Gras, the girls abandon their bras in the cab of the truck and flash anyone with alcohol in their hands on Bourbon Street. Instead of beads, they get free beer and new friends. In a group, they carry around big gulp cups and politely ask for just a splash of someone's alcoholic beverage until they have enough to drink down. Long into the night, they dance down the street with strangers in the sprinkling rain, loose with insouciance. Happy and drunk, they stumble into a hostel with soggy shoes, and stay the night on a mat surrounded by fellow travelers. 

      Since they got to the city so late at night, they agreed to see a psychic in the morning and do a ghost tour. However, as they clamber back out into the street, Aradia says, "I had another dream last night. We don't need to see a psychic. And I _definitely_ don't want to see anymore fucking ghosts." The dream was black with voices echoing all around her inaudibly. It seemed to have lasted all night, no break from the whispering and muted screams. Throughout the day, she constantly looked over her shoulder as if she heard her name being whispered. While Dragonfly is less sympathetic, The Bee Guy asks if they should turn around and go back home. Her predictions, though far in between they may be, have rarely been wrong. She thinks on it for a moment, tapping the straw of her drink against her bottom lip. "No. It's inevitable, I think. No sense in throwing away our dreams just based on a feeling. Don't even worry about it, let's just enjoy our road trip, okay?" She smiles and kisses his cheek. He watches the way she twirls the straw between her fingers, grinning at Dragonfly's cheesy jokes; genuinely, she seems unconcerned. Cautiously, he allows himself to relax.

      The landmark from Alabama has disappeared. As long as it's somewhere in Louisiana, they suppose it doesn't matter much. With the concerning lack of rocks in the city, Dragonfly buys a smooth stone from a gift shop with the New Orleans skyline carved into it. On the way out of town, Aradia paints over it with vibrant neon, and adds their names to the back in sharpie. With all their combined hangovers, none of them have much energy for creativity. 

      Dragonfly starts and stops her audio books, tries out different podcasts. She listens to her phone and fumbles with the radio at the same time, letting her cigarette smoke fill the cab. "Would you knock it off, what the fuck is wrong with you? Can't we just sit in silence for a while? Jesus." The Bee Guy slaps her hand away from the dial and rolls the window down an inch, curling into the door to stare down at his phone. From the corner of her eye, Aradia watches Dragonfly's bouncing knee, her teeth gnawing on her fingernails.

      "You alright over there? Is there a reason you're so afraid of boredom?" Aradia asks.

      "No. I'm just... I'm..." Dragonfly sinks back into her seat, grumbling. It isn't withdrawal that she's going through, she already got over that. No more shits or shakes or aches. She isn't addicted anymore, she's not supposed to still want it. Earning their pride was hard enough the first time, how is she supposed to explain to them that it's the silence that encourages her to ruin her life all over again? 

      "It's okay, you know. Whatever it is." Aradia glances over at her, but she shakes her head, turning her face away. 

      They make frequent pit stops, leaving their Louisiana marker at a rest area unceremoniously, and only make it a little ways into Texas before stopping for the night. A long stretch of dusty asphalt disappears in the distance, bordered on either side by desert. Amidst the scratchy grass and tumbleweeds, they pop up their tent beside the truck on the side of the road. While The Bee Guy slathers peanut butter on bread and slices bananas, Aradia picks a few handfuls of desert sage and lavender. Gusts of wind blow sand into their sandwiches, but none of them complain. In Dragonfly's dramatically southern words, "God made dirt and dirt don't hurt." 

      It reminds them of what they're leaving behind. Texas is the last of the truly southern states, the last of home. Even though Florida, the most southern state in the country, is arguably the most Northern of all of them, it's still the south. The West Coast is a whole 'nother world, crawling with yuppies and snobs, where people have individual senses of style. Seasons with snow and leaves changing colors, where strangers are aloof rather than giving you life advice you never asked for upon shaking their hand. Avocado toast for lunch instead of chicken and waffles - and no sweet tea! That's nearly enough for Dragonfly to call it quits right there. Homey though it may be, there's nothing new left for them there but stagnation.

      Aradia's dream that night is less intense than the others. She wakes to a dark tent with a lightning bug winking at her from the ceiling. The only memory of the images in her mind are fractured and fuzzy. Fear tingles slightly up her spine, so she turns to her side to drape her arm across Dragonfly's stomach, and falls back asleep within moments. Maybe, she thinks, it really was the energy of the old hospital. Maybe it's waning.

      This, however, turns out to be false. Even on an isolated bank on a river, with only the sound of rushing water, birds and the breeze, she's haunted. The water is cold, taking away their breath as they jump off rocks, and clear enough to see the sandy bottom seven feet down. Willow trees dip their branches into the pool to sip. Dogwood tree flowers amble from their branches, gliding across the water before twirling in circles and drowning in the current. Butterflies, bees, and beetles dart around them, crawl on their toes and in their hair. As usual, dragonflies flock to Dragonfly, landing on her hair and falling her around, ignoring the other two humans. It's where she got her name from, after the time by the lake where the bushes had more dragonflies than leaves. They'd waft into the air by their legs when they walked through the grass. Dragonfly scooped them out of the water and held dozens of them in her palms while they rubbed the water from their eyes and fluttered their wings to dry them. Since then, it's as if all dragonflies treat her as a goddess.

      By all means, their campsite for the night is heaven on Earth. And yet, as they sleep on a blanket underneath the stars, Aradia wakes with a gasp. Tears drip from the corners of her eyes, and she sits up to bury her face in her knees. 

      She sits by the water side, languidly throwing leaves into the pool. Though it's calming - the delicate tinkle of the water flowing over rocks, the soft murmur of the gales in the leaves above her - rivulets of tears continue to smooth down her face. Like in the dream, the soil beneath her threatens to reach out and swallow her. She had managed to rip away and fly into the air, but the sky too pulled her away from The Bee Guy and Dragonfly, choking and coughing on her name as a black ocean swallowed them.  

      Throughout the night, she contemplates her dreams, arguing with herself about what they mean. It's possible she's turning one bad dream into a big ordeal. But she remembers the dreams she had before the death of her father, and she cries again. Like she told The Bee Guy; it's inevitable, so there's no sense in worrying about it. Naked, she floats on her back, admiring the stars and the moon. She reflects on her life, all that she has to be grateful for, the opportunities she's been lucky enough to have. It's been a life bursting with love. If all that is guaranteed is now, then it's now that she will focus on. Now, and her memories. Beautiful memories, filled with growth and moments of ecstasy. This is what she thinks of as she swims between strands of moonlight.

      Dragonfly finds a graveyard of obsidian. Per The Bee Guy's request, Aradia paints veins of water streaming around the various surfaces and dents. Scattered around, she paints their initials, date, and location. Another masterpiece, crafted with passion. One last dip in the water, and they're back to the grind. 

      Texas is a desert that never seems to end. The highways interrupt abandoned towns, seen from overpasses and vanishing behind them in clouds of dust. Heat boils on the top of hills until it evaporates as they grow closer. Few other vehicles are seen aside from pickup trucks with confederate flags waving from the back and small two-doors with the bumpers scraping the asphalt. It's one of these cars that they end up behind for several hours. The back is completely covered with layers of overlapping stickers.  Every now and then, they catch hints of Spanish or country music through the static on the radio. Otherwise, it's quiet. Dragonfly, having gone through all of her means of self-entertainment, feebly attempts conversation. It's hard to think of something new when you've spent literal years of your life talking with the same two people, and especially so if they hardly respond. 

      "Dude, seriously, what is your problem? Why can't you just sit in silence and stare out the windshield like the rest of us?" The Bee Guy interrupts.

      "Says the one who hasn't looked up from his phone in four hours. Also, I'm blind? Remember that? Kind of like, effects most every single aspect of my life?" He rolls his eyes.

      "Of course, how could I forget? Seriously though, what's the deal?" She groans childishly, pressing her cheek to the window. 

      "I just don't like being bored. It leaves too much room for-"

      "Thinking? Wow, yeah, don't say anything more. I know how difficult that is for you." 

      "Yeah, and for craving a fix." It comes out, bitterly, before she has a chance to stop it. They're all frustratingly placid, and she lays her head back on the glass again in misery. Beside her, The Bee Guy twists around and rummages behind the seats. He taps her arm with a fat blunt, twisted on the end. "You've been hoarding these the entire time? Fuck you, man." Gratefully, she lights it and takes a deep inhale of sweet blueberry.

      "I was practicing rolling them like they do in dispensaries, so I have a bunch of them. Didn't want you to smoke them all, but I guess now's a good time to share." They pass the joint between the three of them, calmly thinking their own thoughts. Dragonfly's scattered thoughts slow down, and she stills her fidgeting. 

      "I don't know what's wrong with me. I detoxed, I went to therapy, went through a whole goddamn program. Physically, I feel better than I have in forever. My mind is clearer. I've actually been _feeling_ my emotions." She takes a moment to toke, holds it in longer than necessary, then blows it out through her nose. "So why, even though I know it'd turn my life right back to shit when I'm trying to scrape together what I can - why does my head still _go_ there? Why can't I control my thoughts, my feelings? I can't control anything." Her voice is tender and introspective. Simply wondering, rather than agonizing like she once had. 

      "Addiction is hard to quit. A lot of people relapse. I mean, not that you have to or should, I just mean there's nothing _wrong_ with you. It's okay to have those feelings, it's normal to still have urges. It's still early in your recovery." Aradia reaches over The Bee Guy's lap to squeeze her arm. In response, Dragonfly kisses her fingers and slips the joint between them. Of course. How could she have convinced herself that they would be exasperated with her, abandon her in a town far away, finally get sick of her? They've put up with a lot more bullshit from her than a simple confession of emotion. The Bee Guy idly picks up her hand and intertwines her fingers with his own.

      He opens his mouth to respond, but his words are cut short by an infuriated gasp and jerk of the truck. They trail sideways, almost into a ditch. Almost before they've even come to a complete stop, Aradia jumps out of the cab and runs into the street. "Aradia, what the actual hell?" He unbuckles and begins to slide out after her, watching as she kneels by the center lines. She stands, fists balled at her sides and screams insults at the janky car they had been following behind for miles.

      "That bitch ass motherfucker went _out of his way_ to swerve, no wonder his car is such a piece of shit!" She turns away angrily and storms to the car, her face red. She comes out with a blanket and bends to the ground, coming back up with something large in her arms. Muttering to herself, she walks around the front of the truck and sits on a large boulder, cooing at the thing swaddled in the blanket. 

      "What happened? What's going on?" Dragonfly shakes his arm until he tells her, and they both climb out to stand at either side of Aradia. The smell hits them first; fresh blood and a dirty animal. Only the rabbit's head pokes out from the blanket, blood bubbling from its nostrils. It doesn't struggle at all, only stares at them with eyes wide in terror, huffing out rapid wheezes. "Damn. Should we, like... put it out of its misery?" Dragonfly suggests, earning a glare from both of them.

      "We can call animal control, or the local fish and wildlife. A vet. Maybe someone can help him. Dammit. Do either of you get signal?" They both shake their heads. "Guess we're going on an adventure, then. We'll drive until we find service-" The Bee Guy holds up a hand.

      "Uh, _I'm_ not wasting gas and money and time for some rodent-"

      "Then fucking _Dragonfly_ can drive-"

      "I don't think I'm comfortable with that-"

      "-and you can stay here and pout." The fierceness in her eyes is the kind that will refuse to die until satisfied. They've been together long enough that The Bee Guy knows he won't win this argument. He runs a hand over his face and slumps his shoulders in defeat.

      "Fine, whatever. You can stay here and cradle your dead rat, I'll drive up the road until I get a signal. I don't want it stinking up the car. But I'm not driving hundreds of miles, if I don't get anything soon I'm just coming back." As he clambers back into the cab, Aradia yells for him to throw out a bottle of water and a banana. He flings both of them on the ground and bitterly slams the door. 

      The hare laps up a few capfuls of water, munches a few bits of banana. It's still again, then suddenly hisses and thrashes around, scratching at Aradia's arms. She throws it down before it gets her, watches it scurry away a few steps, then fall to the ground, writhing. She sucks in through her teeth and gently scoops it up in the blanket again, holding it close to her chest until the seizure evaporates. "I think he's gone..." Still, she holds him, gazing down into his bloody face. Their shoulders grow red with the sun baking them from above, waiting and staring out at the boring stretches of dusty desert and the lone WATCH FOR STOCK sign, watching the few wane clouds drift across the bright blue sky. 

      Slowly, Aradia can feel the animal's heat seeping out of it. It hasn't moved except to have another violent seizure, nearly flopping out of her arms. The smell of death sours in her nose, but she keeps it in her lap, wrapped tightly in the blanket, until it evacuates its bowels. She leaves it by her feet after that, sporadically attempting to feed and water it again when it makes a sigh or squeak. Once, it blinks its eyes and smacks its lips, but soon after retains its flaccid posture. The eyes, half-closed, don't blink, and its chest very subtly rises and falls.

      "Babe, this is really morbid. Shouldn't we just put it out of its misery already? I really don't think he's going to make it. We can find a big rock, and I'll do it. It's not like I can see, and you don't have to look, and it won't be in pain anymore."

      "But, he's still breathing a little bit. There's still a chance." Her voice is heavy with an empathy Dragonfly don't think she could ever feel for a human being, let alone some random animal. She slides a hand across Aradia's back, softening her words.

      "But would he want it? I mean, honestly, isn't it less cruel to just end it instead of prolonging it to the very end, dragging it out based on the slim possibility he can be saved?" Truthfully, Dragonfly just can't stand the smell, the heat, the boredom, and sure, maybe the small pangs of hurt pinging around her chest for the small creature. For her own sake, it'd be a lot less miserable to get it out of the way. Aradia peers down, running her fingers over a long, velvety ear, and finally nods.

      When it comes to it, though, Dragonfly stands with a large rock between her hands, just above where Aradia said its head was, and freezes. The potential sound it could make fills her ears, the blood and brains on her bare legs. She squeezes her eyes closed, holds her breath, and drops the rock to the side of its head. No one ever said she's a pinnacle of morality. Sitting on a boulder several yards away, Aradia examines the blood and grime in the creases of her palms, wondering if they've done the right thing. Dragonfly runs her fingers through Aradia's hair as she cries. 

      Soon after, The Bee Guy comes back and squats in front of them. "I called nearby vets, animal hospitals - not that there were very many, we're in the middle of goddamn nowhere. Fish and wildlife services, even some pet stores and national parks, to just get some advice, but. No one would come or even take it in. They just kept saying not to touch it and leave it alone. Sorry, Aradia. I really did try." She smiles sadly at him. 

      "S'okay. Thank you, I appreciate the effort. He... didn't make it, anyways." Dragonfly looks away. 

      At the next big rest area, they ask a truck driver for some shower coins. He spits on the ground at his feet, looking Aradia up and down with a sneer. She meets his eyes, hard and steady, and he eventually drops a handful of plastic tokens into her hands wordlessly. The soiled clothes are dumped in the trash; she has a sneaking suspicion she won't get the chance to wear them again, anyways. No matter how hard she scrubs, the smell of death still stains her skin. All throughout the night, she drives down the endless stretch of road. Wafts of the animal still occasionally crash over her, flooding her mind with the sensations of holding a dying rabbit in her arms. It's such a small death, one that no one will even notice except for them. But it solidifies the vague feeling of doom that's been following her across the country. One of them is going to die, and she thinks she may know who. 

      It's well into morning when she finally allows The Bee Guy to take the wheel. To keep herself awake, she doodles a tiny bunny face on the Texas obsidian. Her eyelids slide closed without her realizing. Despite her best efforts, she nods off into a foggy sleep filled with smears of blood, twitching whiskers, and fading warmth. 

      With what little sleep she's running on, she almost considers giving up and skipping the [museum](https://meowwolf.com/) in New Mexico. She picked it specifically because it's filled with neon lights, strobing mazes, glowing playgrounds. A funhouse of color. Even Dragonfly could enjoy that, with what mild shadow and light recognition she has. If it's someone's last days, then they deserve as much as they can possibly get. They leave the Texas rock in front of the entrance to the museum, and for a few hours, leave the outside world with it. 

      The girls, at least, enjoy the bright exhibits, shove each other over slides and through moving tunnels, giggling like their lives depend on how big their grins are. It's a relief to run around with families and kids, untroubled. The Bee Guy is reserved, smiling only when Aradia looks in his direction. He watches her laugh easily, but in the quiet between moments, her brows knit together a blanket of worry that shadows her face. Psychics and a lot of that bullshit magic, vibes, hippie lore has never made sense, but Aradia's anxiety is starting to rub off on him. She catches him staring and mouths, 'It'll be okay' as she holds her fingers in the sign for 'I love you.' It doesn't help to ease his mind. Dragonfly already seems to have forgotten about the turbulence, which is... good. Yeah, definitely good. She deserves a break, he thinks, and tries harder to make her laugh.

      In the flowerbeds out front, Dragonfly finds a rock, and The Bee Guy suggests a wolf head, after the name of the museum. As they drive through the last stretch of New Mexico, Aradia uses a thin brush to paint a highly detailed wolf's head. It's teeth are bared, drool dripping from his lips, and a flower crown rests between his ears. She falls into a restless sleep again, waking with nightmares staining the back of her eyelids. It's not long now to California; she may as well just give up sleep until they reach their destination. A hard task with the comforting lull of the tires beneath her and the calm rocking of the truck. 

      It doesn't bear repeating. Aradia drives until she starts drifting away at the wheel, and still argues against falling asleep. Finally, sandwiched between the two of them in their thin plastic house, she allows herself to succumb to the waves of exhaustion and nightmares, where the yucca trees dance their way towards them in dancing flocks like zombies. The earth is hot beneath her, and she wakes with sweat pooling between her breasts.

      The next day, they stop in Sedona, Arizona. Supposedly, it's one of the most vivid spiritual centers in the world. Natural vortexes with waves of healing energy roll though its mountains. They find an easy one to hike, overlooking the small town. At the top, they cross their legs, straighten their backs, and retreat into their minds in an attempt to meditate. The temperature is in the hundreds, but the sun sips the sweat from their skin before it has the chance to go anywhere, and the heat builds inside them almost unbearably.

      Obviously, this makes Dragonfly extremely uncomfortable. She chews on her lip, trying to keep from fidgeting, looking into herself without judgement. There's little there but scattered thoughts and sharp desires, a restlessness that reverberates through her bones. Her body tells her to keep going, keep looking and running and talking. Like a shark, she might just explode if she stops swimming. At the image of a spontaneously exploding shark, she grins. Her mind drifts to back to Florida, to the familiar home that she's always known. Instinct tells her to go back, to try again with Dave since they've had a healthy break. Guiltily, she knows the first place she'd go to is the Hippie Hotel. From there, she spirals into self-loathing and the dreary pointlessness of life. This is exactly why she doesn't like to be left alone with her thoughts. While the others waste more time sitting and doing nothing, she searches the ground for a suitable rock. 

      The Bee Guy is better at it, used to regular morning yoga and meditation with Aradia. While there's no deep introspection for him, he lets his thoughts glide down his stream of consciousness with ease. Aradia had mentioned she wants the barn to be painted a rainbow of colors, but that's a lot of paint. Maybe he could bring her back down to two or three? There are more important things to spend money on, like seeds and tools... He's interrupted only when he shifts so that rocks don't jab into his butt uncomfortably, or when a bird cries above them and he can't help but peek. It's nice to sit, unburdened by responsibility and action, at least momentarily.

      And then there's Aradia. Desperately, she tries to hide in her skin, feel the sun warming her muscles, the hot breeze combing its fingers through her hair, empty her mind of anything. She tries to feel the vortex beneath her, but comes up empty. _Have the gods forsaken me? Is it really so close that no one is going to bother visiting me? No reassurance from my spirit guides, no advice from my Higher Self? Completely abandoned, even by the earth._ She's frustratingly stuck in her head, clouded with negativity. Even when she attempts patience with herself, to gently guide her thoughts and feelings somewhere more acceptable, they wiggle from her grasp. It's normally so easy for her to slip into that place of stillness; it should especially be so here of all places. What a wasted opportunity. 

      They leave the New Mexico rock under the city limits sign, take a picture, regard it in forced sentimentality, and hit the road. Outside the fence to what is supposedly Area 51, they set the oval rock with glittery chakra points painted onto it. Flat, empty desert stretches far beyond it and on either side. For several minutes, they stare up at the nondescript fence, standing in the boiling sun. With the lack of alien activity, they leave in disappointment. To Dragonfly's mockery, The Bee Guy - predictably - suggests this rock be painted with a green alien. 

      At first, the desert was beautiful. Different from the many shades of green and moss of Florida, the dusty mountains of Texas, the natural red architecture of New Mexico. It's empty, the mountains always seeming so far in the distance, growing farther away as they draw closer. Every couple hundred miles, they'll find a town with one street, including a gas station if they're lucky. Seemingly, there are no neighborhoods, as if the only residents are the cashiers that sleep standing up behind their registers. More often, the towns are abandoned, covered in cracks and graffiti. One can appreciate tumbleweeds and the occasional scraggly tree for so long. In one of these that they pass, a rare tree taller than a person, there are shoes dripping from its branches. The Bee Guy recalls having seen one before, somewhere, at some point. He watches it go by in boredom. Half an hour later, there's another one. The joint they were passing comes to him next, and he takes the opportunity to ask, "Alright, what the fuck is up with these trees with shoes in them?" 

      "Oh, I know this one!" Dragonfly waves her hand in the air. "I actually started one back home. You write something on the bottom, whatever you want, and throw it up there. We should go back and do it!" Aradia immediately makes a u-turn, much to The Bee Guy's annoyance.

      "God dammit, I shouldn't have said anything. I just want to hurry up and get there already, we're so close. We don't even have any shoes to just throw away." 

      "Um, hello?" Dragonfly uses her toes to find the flip flop that she had broken while stumbling around New Orleans. "And what about those shoes you're always wearing? They have holes in them and the bottoms are coming off. You've had them, like, since high school, haven't you?"

      "Yeah, and I'm _always wearing them_. Hello?" He mimics her voice obnoxiously. 

      "You can get a new pair to ruin, hun. Let's go." Aradia jumps out of the truck and to the car, pulling out the first of her shoes she can find in the abyss of junk. It happens to be her favorite pair of boots. She hesitates, then takes them anyways. 

      Under the tree, she sits with the shoes in her lap, staring at them with glazed eyes. Dragonfly and The Bee Guy discuss what lyrics they want to use, their aspirations they want to manifest. "You can do literally _anything_ you want," she reiterates, and with that fully acknowledged, she tells The Bee Guy to draw a 'cock and balls and a juicy pussy.' She wiggles her tongue between her fingers, and he slaps her with a flip flop.

      Once they've both decorated their shoes - Dragonfly's with barely legible genitals in various shapes, sizes and hygienic states; The Bee Guy's with simple song lyrics - they throw them a few times until they snag on a branch or another shoe. They lean against the truck, bickering and giggling. Aradia's boots are still blank, swallowing her vision like a dramatic metaphor for her future. "I don't know what to do." Her voice is faint and distraught, a crease between her brows. 

      "You know no one's actually going to read it, right? It's more the principle of the thing." The Bee Guy plops beside her, closing his eyes as he rests his head against the thin trunk of the tree. 

      "I don't know if I should write my goals in life, what I want to be remembered for, what I want to do before I die. It _does_ matter. This could be my last mark on the world. Nothing beyond this exact moment is guaranteed." Without opening his eyes, he reaches a hand towards her, stroking her thigh.

      "Love, not every premonition will necessarily happen. Even if these really are your last days, you're wasting them by worrying about it. You can write all of those things-"

      "Or you could just paint it. Words are limiting, anyways. They'd stand out if you just painted them." From her squat, Dragonfly slowly falls to her bottom with a sigh. "We could call it an early night and just set up camp right here. You can take as long as you want." Aradia gives her a grateful peck on the cheek, and the two of them set up the tent and make dinner, leaving her to hesitate over her shoes.

      Dragonfly's idea appeals to her more than anything else, so she scatters her painting supplies by her feet and decorates without forethought. The first one is smudgy, the colors smearing together until muddy, and the laces are coated in deep red. She realizes that it isn't the kind of legacy she wants to leave behind, and frowns over it as she eats a handful of peanuts for supper. The other boot is painted in obnoxiously bright solids, each lace a different neon color. And yet still, as beautiful and contrasted as they may be, visual representations of life - it doesn't say enough. 

      "How do you think you guys will remember me when I'm dead?"

      "Assuming you would die before both of us-" The Bee Guy is interrupted by Dragonfly's overpowering volume. He glares at her, crossing his arms.

      "Best at eating me out." She wiggles her eyebrows and winks, drawing a giggle from Aradia. 

      "Thanks. Maybe I'll treat you tonight if you answer me seriously." After a moment, Dragonfly's wicked grin mollifies.

      "I'd remember you as the one who saved my life. You know, with Bee's help, I guess." She smirks over at him teasingly, but he focuses on Aradia.

      "I'd remember you as the most genuine, beautiful, soulful person I've ever known. One of the only people in the world who is _truly_ selfless and kind and caring. Someone whose mere existence I am continuously in awe of. I'd just be grateful that I got to know you at all, for even a glance." She taps a silver sharpie against her lower lip, smiling at The Bee Guy with moist eyes. 

      On a strip of notebook paper, she writes 'I want to be remembered for being a good person.' On another, she writes, 'before I die, I want to kiss my lovers one last time.' It goes on like this, writing everything she can think of, until the last of the summer sun finally disappears. Lyrics, quotes, fond memories, favorite words and songs and books. She takes the handfuls of ripped paper and stuffs them deep into the boots. No one will see them or even know that there's anything in them, but she finds comfort in their existence; at least the universe knows. She stands before the tree and mentally whispers a thanks to it, then hefts the shoes in the air. With the light of a flashlight, they watch them spin around themselves and fall from several branches, eventually catching on one towards the bottom. The Bee Guy cups her cheeks in his palms, kissing her sweetly.

      "You're not going to die anytime soon. None of us are. I'll bet you anything it's just a lingering demon or spirit vampire or whatever from the hospital. We can take care of it when we get home-"

      "Stop hogging her, it's my turn!" Dragonfly shoves him out of the way and throws her arms around Aradia's neck, kissing her sloppily. Aradia laughs against her lips, relief dripping from her eyes; at least there's someone who can take the edge off her heaviness. Behind her, The Bee Guy gripes about ruining the moment. In response, Dragonfly tackles him with his own kiss. As promised, Aradia treats her, relishing every moment between her legs. They're down a blanket that night, but the sleeping bags pad the ground enough. It's easier when you don't have to get up at a certain time in the morning. 

      There are no nightmares up until the point Aradia wakes in the middle of the night to the sound of an engine pulling up beside their camp. It idles, then turns off. Nothing happens for so long she thinks she must have still been half-asleep. After rubbing the blurriness from her eyes, she sits up onto her elbows, glancing over at her sleeping partners. It's too dark to see anything at all, the kind of dark that writhes and pools, but she can hear their even breathing. Her peaceful smile is interrupted by the sound of a car door opening, then slamming closed. Adrenaline courses through her veins like acid, and she sits up completely. Slow, heavy footsteps grow closer. The owner breathes heavily, grunting. 

      She's paralyzed with fear. The realization hits her: _this is it._ How could she not have realized sooner? With a trembling hand, she shakes the closest shoulder she can find. Dragonfly moans and turns over. She tries The Bee Guy, who continues to snore. The footsteps grow closer and louder, swelling with each grunt and snort. Frantically, she shakes them, whispering desperately. "Please wake up. Dragonfly, Bee? Please?" She tries to say their names louder, but her throat closes around the words, forcing her to swallow them completely. "Wake up." She forces out. They don't move. "Wake _up."_ Marginally louder. No reaction. _"Wake up!"_

      Despite the darkness, the shadow of a tall man paints the wall of the tent. She watches as he kneels down and slowly begins to unzip the door, one palm pressed against the fabric in terrifying detail. Fear and desperation build in her chest as the flap crumples to the ground and a dirty hand reaches in - and she lets it out in a shrill scream. Abruptly, The Bee Guy and Dragonfly sit up, patting her hair and back, yelling over her. "Aradia! It's okay!" "Nothing is happening, you're fine." "Open your eyes, you're okay." Finally, she takes a shaky breath, and peels her eyes open. 

      It's dim, the sun casting the inside of their fortress in a vague orange hue. The man is gone. There are no footsteps. The door is zipped closed. Her heart slows with each comforting circle rubbed on her back and hands, her breathing eases. When she tries to speak, her voice comes out as a raspy croak. A bottle of water is handed to her. 

      "We're going. Now." She wipes the dribble from her chin and stands, already gathering the sleeping bag. Dragonfly grabs the rest of the contents in the tent and sleepily shuffles to the truck. The Bee Guy sighs, wiping the gunk from his eyes. Hopefully this shit will end when they get to California, when she realizes everything is okay, that she's safe. He breaks the tent down and doesn't even bother folding it. He struggles to stuff it through the cracked window of the car and flips it off, throwing the poles in after it. 

      Aradia takes off before he can even close the door behind him. "Mind explaining why the hell we're running away?" Her eyes seem widened by the heavy bags underneath them, wrinkling her forehead with their new size. 

      "The... the bad thing. The thing that was going to happen. A man was going to come, and... I don't know what he was going to do." She pauses. "But that's the bad thing that was going to happen. He was going to hurt us, and - and - we were in the middle of nowhere. We hardly saw any cars, we get no service, the closest town is hours away."

      "Are you sure you weren't just paranoid about all that stuff? You know, before we even went to sleep?" Dragonfly slurs, already hanging her head on The Bee Guy's shoulder for a nap.

      "I'm positive." Aradia looks to The Bee Guy. Their eyes meet briefly before she turns them back to the windshield. He's sure that Dragonfly is right, but watches the road behind them in the mirror. Just in case. 

      As the awareness settles - that they're safe, that they avoided the damning dark omen stalking them - Aradia gradually inflates with her old liveliness. Her head has finally broken the surface of the muddy waters of dread, and she's gasping in the light of relief. Saccharine, she traces the lines of the mountains that begin to converge around them, painting the barren landscape. She says hello to every friend that skitters in front of the truck, memorizes the freckles on Dragonfly's chest. Gratitude pulls her lips back into their customary convivial grin. Wider even, after their long reprieve. It's over. They made it out alive, and they can move on. The thought makes her laugh breathlessly to herself.

      By the time they cross the border to California, she's fully recovered from her week of debilitating psychic energy. It's contagious, lifting up even the grumpy Bee Guy, inciting even more of a manic energy from Dragonfly. They all go, for lack of a better term, completely apeshit. In a dangerous place on the side of a busy highway, they pull over, and climb the guardrail to the Welcome to California sign. The nostalgic innocuous green sign with the blocky letters welcoming them to new territory. They take obnoxious pictures of themselves underneath it, posing and making faces, laughing with the high of those who have out fooled death. 

      The goal: drive across the state to the coast, and drive the entire length to the very top. Where the bright, sandy beaches give way to mysterious forests, brushing against the border of the next state north. 

      Aradia watches her new home blur by, waving her hand in the breeze. The air is different here; lighter, less intrusive. It doesn't sap the energy from her with muggy heat, but rather kindly warms her skin and invites her to bask in the grass. Finally, _finally,_ the one thing this whole trip was supposed to be about - freedom. Eventually, they reach the true mountains. A winding two-lane road with blind corners that make them a little nervous, if thrilled. Small waterfalls trickle down the rock faces to the right, and on the left is a cliff looking down into ravines. Enjoyable as it is, the higher they climb, the more the truck's engine whines in protest.

      At the entrance of every tunnel, they fill their lungs with the fresh forest air and scream along with the car's honking, sticking their heads out the windows to push their voices against the zephyrs. The moment they emerge on the other side, they cut themselves off and collapse into giggles. With each tunnel, their worries tumble from their mouths, carried away by the breath of the caverns around them. If the truck protested going uphill, it is all too eager to go back down. The Bee Guy casually uses both hands to slowly guide the U-Haul, hugging lines and likely adding a few hours to their arrival time. No one is in a hurry, though, it's the nicest drive they've had yet. Aradia taps a pencil against her chin, looking down at her sketch of the twisted path ahead of them, wiggling her toes on the dashboard. Dragonfly, for once, is still. She closes her eyes and lifts her head into the roar of the wind that fills the cab, the cool air that kisses her cheeks. Her body sways mildly as they coil around the peaks of the valley.

      "I want to say something," she announces suddenly, to everyone's surprise, including her own. They shift to listen. "I just wanted to say that, you know. I know I've said it like a bajillion times, but, I don't know, I guess I'm just feeling some type of way. I'm really, really, _really_ grateful for you guys. For forcing me to go to rehab, for letting me live with you and move to the other side of the fucking country with you." They all grin.

      "We love you, too." Aradia wraps an arm around her neck and kisses her cheek.

      "I've had a really great time on this road trip, too. For the first time in my life, I feel like I'm going in the right direction. Like life isn't just throwing shit at me to make it hard to move forward. I could just live on the road, I think. And it's so fucking amazing here. You could find something like this _maybe_ on the border of North Carolina, but the south really just... doesn't have it. Imagine growing up somewhere like this."

      "No dirt roads and trailer parks and rednecks. That's the dream." The Bee Guy sighs wistfully.

      "I'm really excited to start this business with you guys. I never, _ever,_ thought I'd be anything in the future but dead in a ditch. I don't deserve this, but thank you. Thank you. I won't let you down, I promise." She leans into Aradia, reveling in the hands running up and down her arm.

      "I'm excited, too. It's going to be _so_ much fun. The first thing we can do is build a coop and get some chickens, live off selling eggs and the rest of the soaps and candles and shit we have. We can grow pot and sell it to our friends until we get our legal licenses." 

      "And mushrooms."

      "Well, of course!"

      Dragonfly sits towards the back of the conversation and listens. She doesn't much care about the details of the farm; give her something to do and she'll do it, no questions asked. But it is nice to think about a place they can make their own, do anything they want with. A little utopia, just for them. Birds sing around them, rustling the branches of the trees that threaten to brush against the top of the truck. They're the only ones in this peaceful part of the planet, somewhere so beautiful it's a miracle that it exists at all. Twisted within the sounds of mother nature -

      She scrunches her nose. "Do you guys hear that?" It takes a few moments to manually roll the windows up, and the silence afterwards rings in their ears. Beyond that, there's the faint high-pitched scream of a frantic car horn. 

      "That's a fucking semi." Aradia puts her feet on the floor, every positive feeling from that day breaking away as if it had only been a mask. "Bee, do something." 

      "What the fuck am I supposed to do? There's nowhere to pull over-" All at once, as they round another corner, the noise breaks the bubble of distance and bursts in their faces. With a wall of solid rock on one side, a thousand foot drop on the other, there's nowhere to escape from the careening truck, weaving unsteadily between the lanes. 

      One moment, Dragonfly was sitting in the truck with her two favorite people in the world, embarking on the beginning of a fresh start. The next, she's lying sideways on top of The Bee Guy, dizzy and hyperventilating, at the bottom of a mountain. It's silent except for her breath and the waves of adrenaline crashing in her ears. "Bee?" Her voice sounds far away. She shifts and feels her hands along the dashboard, which is closer than she remembers it being. When she tries to move her leg, a stabbing pain slices through her hip. She sucks in a breath, continuing to feel along the steering wheel, past the airbag. "Bee?" He groans in response. She unbuckles her seat belt, falling on top of him, but he doesn't respond. Her hands reach up over her seat, to the familiar hand hanging in the air. 

      "Aradia?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this song not absolutely perfect?


	11. Brokedown Palace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also a relevant song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_YP4050e6hs

_[Fare you well, my honey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A9uyMjzmT3k) _

_Fare you well my only true one._

_All the birds that were singing_

_Are flown, except you alone._

_Going to leave this brokedown palace,_

_On my hand and my knees, I will roll, roll, roll._

_Make myself a bed by the waterside,_

_In my time, in my time, I will roll, roll, roll._

_In a bed, in a bed, by the waterside I will lay my head._

_Listen to the river sing sweet songs, to rock my soul._

 

_River going to take me, sing sweet and sleepy,_

_Sing me sweet and sleepy all the way back home._

_It's a far gone lullaby, sung many years ago._

_Mama, mama many worlds I've come since I first left home._

_Goin' home, goin' home, by the waterside I will rest my bones,_

_Listen to the river sing sweet songs, to rock my soul._

 

_Going to plant a weeping willow,_

_On the bank's green edge it will grow, grow, grow._

_Sing a lullaby beside the water,_

_Lovers come and go, the river roll, roll, roll._

_Fare you well, fare you well_

_I love you more than words can tell,_

_Listen to the river sing sweet songs_

_To rock my soul._

 

      It's a nice funeral home, on the corner of the road where The Bee Guy's tech company stands. Small, well-kept, light-hearted. After so many years, it had blurred into the background of life, except when the parking lot was full and the procession clogged up traffic. Now, he stands inside, at a podium. He doesn't remember how he got there, or when his cheeks grew cold with moisture. That happens a lot these days; he feels something drip onto his hand, and finds tears pooling on his chin. No heat behind the eyes, no lump in the throat, no blocked nasal passages. As if someone else were borrowing him for a moment of emotional relief. 

      "I prepared an actual eulogy, but, uh... I forgot it at the house. I'm not great with words, especially when my brain's so completely fried. Um. There's too much to say, too much to feel and think about. It's just all too much. Which is weird, isn't it? You'd think with one less person around, there'd be... less. And there is. There's a _lot_ less. I keep finding myself, like, _forgetting_ that she's gone, even though it's all I think about. I'll think, 'oh I should remind Aradia to do this.' Or, 'Aradia would love this, I can't wait to show her.' And I'll smile a little, and then it hits me all over again. It damn near takes my breath away, every damn time. I wake up and when she's not in bed, I think she's just gone to the bathroom, or is making breakfast. Sometimes she would get up early to watch the sunrise on the beach." He looks across the crowded room of wet eyes, and antsy children, friends he can't remember ever not knowing, long distance relatives he met once at a wedding years ago. Her mom sits alone in the front row with a hard, glazed stare. Everyone is wearing bright colors, fancy dresses and silly hats, except for the few who stand out in black suits. Obviously the memo hadn't reached everyone. He'd thought it was stupid, but Dragonfly was right; she'd like it. He wonders what memories with her they're all reliving.

      "This isn't about me, sorry. But I'm sure everyone here can relate to it? Anyways, um... Aradia was special. Not in a bullshit way people tell their kids, but in a way that actually mattered. It was like, everywhere she went, flowers bloomed in her footsteps," He pauses to scoff. "Damn, wish I would have thought of that while she was still alive. She'd like that. She was... she was... it's stupid to try and summarize a person and her entire life. Uh... I never believed in love until I met her. I'll always love her. Life will never be the same without her. It hurts every goddamn day I wake up and remember again that I will _never_ see her face again. I worry about when I'll forget her voice." His own voice chokes on the last word, and he clears his throat. "Sorry. Sorry... I shouldn't even have come up here. Um. She was so optimistic, I should end this with something... nice." He looks down at his shoes. They're new, bright yellow. Something ugly he wouldn't mind ruining. They don't look like his shoes, his feet. "The world is better because of her, and I will carry her and the lessons she taught me throughout the rest of my life." He pats the podium with his palm and starts down the stairs.

      Dragonfly makes her way up to the stage, in the tie-dye sundress her and Aradia had made together. The colors bleed together in places, brown and dull. The Bee Guy holds her hand as she climbs, and guides her by the elbow to the podium, placing her hand on the microphone. She feels along the end of the bandage on her forehead, covering the stitches. Besides a few bruises and an aching knee, it was her only injury. It's absurd, that so little happened to her and Bee, but the same incident took Aradia away forever. She forces a small smile.

      "Aradia loved funerals, because she was a fucking weirdo." A wave of soft laughter rolls across the room. "She said it's the only place where people are allowed to publicly be vulnerable. You can cry together and not be ashamed of it. She thought they were beautiful. She called them corpse parties, a place where people come together to celebrate a life and grieve a death. The real purgatory. She said a spirit can come back and easily say everything it never got to, to the people they never got to say it to. She would always get so passionate about those things. Soulmates and spirit families and the realm beyond our own. She said it like she _knew,_ too, like it was the only true thing in the universe. She-" Her loose smile bounces off her sigh and falls to the floor. Her waterline fills, and spills over. "Yeah, she was really somethin'. She saved my life. I was... profoundly lost, but she saw me, and she helped. Like she's helped so many people. Among her collection of passions, that was her favorite; helping people. She had so much empathy and love to give. For every bug, every breath of wind that was ever blown on the entire planet. She felt it and she loved it and she genuinely wanted the best for it. She's the only person I've ever met who knew what it meant to be alive." She smiles again, and laughs. It comes out more like a cough, a way to clear the mucus from her throat. She sniffs loudly. 

      "When we were on the road, actually, some asshole in front of us hit a rabbit. And she fucking, swaddled it," she mimics rocking a baby, this laugh coming out as a sob. "And held it until it died, and then she cried. She forced Bee to drive around and call the whole damn town until he found someone to help it. If she could, I think she would spend her entire life saving lives, bringing ants back from the dead, curing diseases and feeding people by hand. She's better than any god anyone could believe in. Anyways um... I'm about to get weird for a second here. I just want to say to Aradia's spirit, if it's here - I love you. Hope you enjoy your party." She smiles one last time, wiping her cheeks as she climbs down the stairs. 

      After the montage of pictures of her, always with a shining grin, the funeral director lines up her close family. Properly forlorn, in his wrinkle-free suit and gentle words. The Bee Guy hates him. He and Dragonfly stand at the end of the short line. It consists only of Aradia's mom, her sister and her boyfriend. Each of them stand a few feet apart, not looking at each other, like strangers caught in an awkward situation. Most of the people that shake their hands are friends, smelling like weed and whispering their sorry's on alcohol-laden breath. Aradia's mother seems afraid to touch them, but nods politely to every memory retold, accepts every hug offered. She dabs at the smeared mascara underneath her reddened eyes. By the time the room has emptied, her purse is full of gifts; the art Aradia had given as birthday presents, jewelry she accidentally left at someone's house that they kept meaning to return. Many people lend their ears to her, whenever she wants to talk, and she wonders why. Why would she talk to strangers about the daughter she hadn't spoken to in ten years? She has nothing to say.

      She turns to her daughter's lovers, glancing down at their interlaced fingers in restrained disdain, then back to their grim faces. "Thank you for getting up there and saying something, both of you. I know that was a lot to ask, but I just... couldn't. I know she wanted to be buried without a coffin, under a tree or whatever, but that's not legal." From a nearby table, she plucks up a plain, light brown box. "I forget what it's made of, bamboo or something, but it's biodegradable. So she can still be buried somewhere nice. Don't know how much good it'll do the tree but... here. You knew her better than me, so." They nod and take the box. After an awkward moment, she says, "I didn't kick her out, you know." 

      "I know," The Bee Guy says. He wants to tell her all the valid reasons Aradia had left, but at the end of it all, he knows that they had loved each other. As Aradia's mother, regardless of how their relationship had ended, it must be hard in ways he can't imagine.

      "I tried to convince her to come back home, but she wouldn't." He nods. "I don't know what I did wrong. Was I a bad mother?" She looks at him with heavy, expectant eyes. Anger ignites in his chest, burning away his sympathy. Like always, she's making it about herself.

      "I think it's a little late to worry about it now." He stares her down until she turns her gaze to the floor in embarrassment.

      In the parking lot, groups of people still linger, chatting quietly. The Bee Guy watches Aradia's mother walk through them, waving dismissively at attempts to touch her shoulder, offer more condolences. Leaning against a dusty old station wagon, he spots Dave and Karkat standing close together as they talk, wiping the sweat from their foreheads. The Bee Guy tugs on Dragonfly's hand, directing her towards them. They're one of the few people wearing dark clothes, and flitting their gazes around subconsciously because of it. Even Dave appears self-conscious behind his third pair of sunglasses he'd bought that month. As the couple approaches, the two boys stop their conversation. The Bee Guy looks at Dave as he speaks.

      "She wanted to leave you some of her stuff. Come by the house and get it whenever, we never really sleep anyways." 

      "Me? What the hell did she want to give me? We didn't ever really hang out. You know, outside of group outings or whatever." Dave glances at Dragonfly nervously.

      "She said you'd like her collection of dead things, I don't know. I'm just the messenger. She also has some stuff she wanted to give Kanaya, so tell her she can come by anytime, too." Karkat nods, also examining Dragonfly. They all turn their attention to her, watching her cane poke at the crack in the sidewalk.

      "Hey, Dragonfly. Long time no see. How've you been?"

      "Hey, Karkat. I heard you and cool douche over here are goin' on tour together." 

      "Yeah, he somehow talked me into it." He looks to Dave, who shrugs. "Are you going?" 

      "Probably. I got nothin' better to do." The Bee Guy turns to her, taken aback. He throws her hand away, and she rolls her eyes, rubbing a hand across her forehead. "Can we please not do this here, right now?" 

      "You're just going to leave? You weren't even going to tell me?" 

      "I was actually going to try and talk you into going with me. What else are we gonna do, sit around being sad? Please, can we-"

      "We still haven't unpacked the U-Haul. I was going to beg for my old job back, and I could help you find something-"

      "I don't want to do that, Bee. Go back to normal when everything is monumentously _not_ normal. It'd just be such a fucking slap to the face, doing the same old shit, but without her. In the same house. At least on tour we won't constantly be reminded of her. It'll give us space to, you know, move on." 

      "So you want to forget her? Just live your life like she never existed? After all she fucking did for you?" He shakes the urn in his hand for emphasis.

      "You know that's not what I mean-" Dave and Karkat glance at each other in uncertainty, hesitantly taking a few steps back to give them space.

      "Do you really think tour is a good idea? You just got out of rehab less than a month ago, and you want to go back to lot?"  

      "Are we really still talking about this right now? Unbelievable. You are so dramatic. Why don't you just leave, let me hang out with my friends instead of wallowing-"

      "They're not even your friends. They don't give a shit about you. No one gives a shit about you, or me, or anything else. The only person that ever gave a shit about anything is  _dead._ And now you're going to leave me, too? I know we've never been as close as we were with her, but seriously-"

      "Then _come with me._ Please. I _want_ you to. Please?" 

      He looks to the sky, watching the inappropriately sunny day glide by, the universe reminding him of how small and unimportant their little corpse party is in the grand scheme of things. The fight seeps out of him very suddenly. What's the point in arguing, in staying, in going, in doing anything? "You know what? Fuck it. I'll go. I don't even give a shit, I have nothing left to lose. You can 'hang out' if you want, I'm going home." As he stalks back to the car, Eridan matches his stride, attempting to whisper something in his ear. The Bee Guy whirls around and shoves him in the chest. "Find your own ride home, I am _not_ dealing with you right now. Why don't you just find somewhere else to stay the night? I'm sure Feferi will let you suck the life out of her one last time, or, here's an idea, _move out._ I don't need any more fucking moochers." Eridan opens his mouth to apologize, snapping it shut when The Bee Guy turns in a circle, announcing, "And the next motherfucker that says sorry to me is going to get their fucking face bashed in. Stay the fuck away from me." 

      "You don't have to be an asshole about it, you're not the only one that's hurting!" Dragonfly calls after him, earning a middle finger that lingers in the air until he slides into his car, alone. She sighs, leaning against the front of the station wagon. 

      "Do you need a ride home?" Karkat asks, putting a hand on top of hers as it rests on her cane. She nods. "We can go ahead and scoop up the, dead things? And whatever she wanted to give Kanaya."

      "Her art supplies."

      "Oh. Okay. Well, we can get that, too." She nods, and runs her hand against the hot metal of the car until she finds the passenger door. Dave's knobby knees jab the back of their seats, and he rambles nervously as they back out of the parking lot. 

      "Okay, take my seat, that's fine. Not that I care or anything, it's only where my ass cheek craters have been carefully crafted into the cushion. Practically stuck a flag in that bitch with an enlarged picture of my pimply ass, but I'll give you a free pass this time on account of... uh..." He drifts off inelegantly. 

      "No, please, finish that sentence. On account of what?" He grumbles an apology, chewing on his nails to keep his mouth shut. "I don't know why everyone is so afraid to say it. She's always 'passed away,' or 'no longer with us.' Just fucking say it; she's-" She cuts herself out. The word gets stuck in her throat, refusing to crawl out of her mouth. She tries again, but it's shoved in their tight. Even in her mind, it flees out of the light, afraid to be acknowledged. Instead, she changes the subject, twisting sideways in her seat to look into the back. "You know, I have something I've been meaning to say to you. I'm legally obligated to, actually, Aradia made me promise to tell you you're an asshole. You were toxic, and mean, and I deserve better than you. I didn't know that because you treated me like I wasn't worthy of your time, like I was less than you. And I'm n... I'm working on not being that, because you're already pretty low, if I'm being honest. I regret wasting so much time, energy, effort, thought and emotion on you. You were the one that was never worth it. Thanks for the lessons you taught me and all, you know, like what not to look for in a relationship. If it wasn't for her and Bee, I don't know that I'd ever figure out what a healthy relationship looks like. So, fuck you. Karkat, describe his facial expression to me." 

      "Big frown, looking out the window in guilt like he's in a sad music video-"

      "Yeah, alright, we get it. I deserve that. I deserve a lot worse than that, probably. I was, just, not that it's an excuse, but I was - I _am_ just going through some personal shit. You get that, right?" Reluctantly, she nods. "Relationships just don't really make sense to me, and I shouldn't have kept stringing you along when I never had any intention of making things work. I'm sorry. You do deserve better." Somehow, her frown deepens even more.

      "Never?" That shouldn't hurt as much as it does. Maybe she's still just raw from the funeral and her argument with The Bee Guy. Hopefully.

      "I mean, I liked you at first. I mean, I _like_ you. You're a really cool chick, and as a person, as a friend, I really do like you. But, I didn't ever love you, like that. I don't think I'm capable. It's still not okay that I treated you like shit, so, I'm sorry." Her face stills, and then it relaxes into a small smile.

      "I think that's the first honest thing you've ever said to me." 

      "Yeah... yeah, I think you're right." He smiles back, and even though she can't see it, she can feel the relief of emptying themselves of a little bit of the baggage between them. They really were great friends before they had to go and ruin it with sex and romance. "We can caravan on tour, so you don't have to be stuck with grumpy McDouche the whole time. John's gonna be with us, I know you two got along pretty well."

      "God, that was a fucking nightmare, I can't believe he blew up like that." She turns back to face forward, shaking her head at the memory. He's always so calm and collected; in all the years she's known him, she's never seen him lose control of his emotions. Her first instinct is to stay away from him, but she knows he needs her right now. He needs  _someone._  

      "Dude, are you crying?" As Dave asks it, she hears a small, wet sigh from Karkat. 

      "I lost a friend today, aren't I allowed a few tears?" He sniffles loudly. "And, also, maybe it's just really nice to see you guys make up. You're being open and honest with each other. I'm so proud of your character development." He smiles into the mirror, and Dave smiles back, looking away shyly. "So, Dragonfly, you went to rehab? Sounds like it was shit." He grips her hand tightly, and she squeezes back. It's nice to have her old friends back. Almost like nothing has changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try to write the chapters before deciding the song, and sometimes I spend hours of frustration trying to find just the right one only to end up with something I'm unhappy with. And other times, like for this chapter, the stars align perfectly.  
> So, I know it's dooming to say the word "hiatus" but... I'm going to take a short hiatus. I already know what I want to do for the second half, I just want to organize it better, and write a few chapters to get ahead before posting. I'm also unsatisfied with what I've written so far, so I was considering going back and editing the chapters I've already posted. Nothing relevant to the plot, there's not going to be any reason to go back and read it, but now that I've taken a step back I can reread and edit them with fresh eyes.  
> Anyways, I'm pretty dedicated to this fic, even if it's average at best and maybe one person is reading it haha It means a lot to me, I enjoy writing it, and I have important things to say, so I /will/ finish it. And I'd like to do as much of it as I can before school starts up again, so believe me when I say I'm trying! Also, sorry for ending it on such a short chapter.  
> Thanks to anyone reading, I appreciate it, have a grateful summer, and I'll see you in a few ;)


	12. Truckin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!! Updates will not be consistent since I'm in school so I'll be really busy. But I've got rough drafts of just about every chapter for the rest of the story! I'm really excited about posting again, I hope you guys enjoy :D

_[Truckin', got my chips cashed in](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pafY6sZt0FE) _

_Keep truckin', like the do-dah man_

_Together, more or less in line_

_Just keep truckin' on_

 

_Arrows of neon and flashing marquees out on Main Street_

_Chicago, New York, Detroit, and it's all on the same street_

_Your typical city involved in a typical daydream_

_Hang it up and see what tomorrow brings_

 

_Dallas, got a soft machine_

_Houston, too close to New Orleans_

_New York's got the ways and means_

_But just won't you be_

 

_Most of the cats that you meet on the streets speak of true love_

_Most of the time they're sittin' and cryin' at home_

_One of these days they know they better get goin'_

_Out of the door and down on the streets all alone_

 

_Truckin', like the do-dah man_

_Once told me, "You've to play your hand."_

_Sometimes your cards ain't worth a fime_

_If you don't lay 'em down_

 

_Sometimes the light's all shinin' on me_

_Other times I can barely see_

_Lately it occurs to me_

_What a long, strange trip it's been_

 

_What in the world ever became of sweet Jane?_

_She lost her sparkle, you know she isn't the same_

_Livin' on reds, vitamin C, and cocaine_

_All a friend can say is, "Ain't it a shame?"_

 

_Truckin', up to Buffalo_

_Been thinkin', you got to mellow slow_

_Takes time, you pick a place to go_

_And just keep truckin' on_

 

_Sittin' and starin' out of the hotel window_

_Got a tip they're gonna kick the door in again_

_I'd like to get some sleep before I travel_

_But if you get a warrant, I guess you're gonna come in_

 

_Busted, down on Bourbon Street_

_Set up, like a bowlin' pin_

_Knocked down, it gets to wearin' thin_

_They just won't let you be_

 

_You're sick of hangin' around and you'd like to travel_

_Get tired of travelin' and you want to settle down_

_I guess they can't revoke your soul for tryin'_

_Get out of the door and light out and look all around_

 

_Sometimes the light's all shinin' on me_

_Other times I can barely see_

_Lately it occurs to me_

_What a long, strange trip it's been_

 

_Truckin', I'm-a goin' home_

_Whoe who baby, back where I belong_

_Back home, sit down and patch my bones_

_And get back truckin' on_

 

Cincinnati, OH

 

      "How far are we?" Karkat asks, standing beside Dave. He wrinkles his nose is distaste as Dave doodles on the wall just above the urinal with a sharpie, simultaneously relieving his bladder. It's a record with a lightning bolt - six up, seven down - going across it, the size of a quarter. Underneath it, he writes the date.

      "Uh, mind giving a guy some space while he takes a piss?" He huddles into the urinal, covering himself, and glares over his shoulder. Karkat rolls his eyes and moves to the sink. "We're like forty minutes from Cincinnati, but we'll be at Bee's friend's house in five." Karkat pauses. It's only their first show, and his stomach twists with anxiety before it's even begun. They've got enough money between the five of them for only a few more tanks of gas and some snacks. Already, he's has met more new people that make him feel like an awkward outcast, not weird enough, not carefree enough, not cool enough; it's almost like being back in high school. An outcast of the outcasts. It's going to be a long summer.

      "And you're sure we won't get in trouble?" Dave steps away from the sink and wipes his hands on his pants. 

      "Dude. _You_ won't get in trouble, guaranteed. You have no part in it, it's going in The Bee Guy's car and if you're for some reason in the car when we're busted, we can all vouch and say you had no idea. It's fool proof."

      "Nothing with you involved is fool proof." They nod to John at the cashier's counter, who was put in charge of the snacks. By the size of the pile in front of him, he took the task seriously. "It's not just _me_ I'm worried about, you know. If one of you gets caught, I've gotta be the one to bail you out and find a legal way to get back home. What if we're all the way in fucking nowhere Montana when you're thrown in jail? Across state lines, that's a federal offense." They squint into the glaring sun as they leave the gas station and start across the parking lot. Sweat leaps to their pores, and they immediately crave the cool relief of the air conditioning. 

      "Then we still got several shows to have fun. You're not our mom, dude, we can take care of ourselves. It's not the first time we've been busted for something, anyways. Well, except for John, maybe. But we're not going to get busted so it's not even a problem. Chill your beans." 

      Karkat's station wagon sits at a pump with the nozzle sticking out. He squeezes it a few times to get more juice out, then replaces it. On the pump opposite of them, The Bee Guy and Dragonfly glare each other down. Ever since the funeral, the two of them have been bickering like a long-time married couple on the brink of divorce. Without Aradia to mediate and remind them that they do actually love each other, they appear to have no idea how to be together. The words are quiet, but harsh, and a cloud of tension bubbles around them anywhere they go. Which is everywhere, because despite their petty disagreements, they still treat life like it's the two of them against the world. Clinging onto the last thread of their old relationship, their old life. 

      In Dave's opinion, once they both get back into the groove of tour, they'll be straight again. Tour has a way of doing that; drawing out one's perspective to look at the big picture, and softening your being. Either that, or they'll both spiral downwards and end up even worse than before. Rock bottoms also greet many tour roadies. It's up to the universe, really. All part of the grand plan.

      John veers away from them and towards Karkat's car with his sweet loot. He throws it into the open window and crawls in after, struggling to pull his long legs through the small square. The back seats have been laid flat, and the back decorated as a stylish mini bedroom. Backpacks with all their clothes are in a cargo carrier on the top of the car. A cooler, grill and a bin of emergency supplies are stacked and pinned to the side, out of the way. It leaves enough room for one whole adult to lay down, and still room for the two seats in the front to lean back. 

      Going "all out" for their "sick whip" was Dave's top priority. The first thing he did when he picked John up from the airport was get him high in the parking lot, even though Karkat had said a thousand times he didn't want his car smelling like weed. The second thing he did was take him to the store to get stickers and window decals of cacti and flowers to decorate the inside. Solar string lights with thick bulbs zigzag across the ceiling, which is covered in glow in the dark stars. A stick figure zombie family - four dads, a mom and four wasted packs of stickers - waves from the back window. At first, Karkat had been riled up, but after Dave lined the floor with foam mats and a sleeping bag, pinned the tools and such out of the way, and convinced Bee to let them borrow their topper, it was comfy enough that he stopped grumbling. 

      Karkat quickly starts the car and inches towards the road so that Dragonfly doesn't sneak in and ruin the mood with her ranting and complaining. After several more moments of arguing, Dave slides off the walkie talkie clipped to the visor above his head and says, "Mustaine to the Bugs, incoming, do you read me?" He repeats his transmission, holding the static to his ear until Karkat stands out the window to yell over the roof.

      "Hey, assholes! Let's hit the road already!" Reluctantly, Dragonfly and The Bee Guy slam the car doors behind them and follow. They swerve ahead of them to lead the way into the city. Judging by Bee's enthusiasm for disobeying the speed limit, they're still arguing.

      Dave promises again that they'll make plenty of money for tickets into the concert, seemingly unconcerned about food or shelter. Karkat insisted on bringing gear to sell grilled cheese sandwiches. Just so he doesn't have to rely on Dave completely, and won't feel bad for mooching off their drug money. He has enough anxiety as it is without having to be dependent on someone else. Secretly, he had been saving a good portion of his paychecks in case of an emergency. Enough for a few nights at a decent hotel and a couple of tickets back home from anywhere. 

      During the last month of their relationship as they prepared to spend all summer stuck in a car together, Dave and Karkat have grown inevitably closer, but neither of them _completely_ trusts the other. Karkat would use the money to help him, of course, he just doesn't want anyone asking to borrow money, or trying to rob him. Not that Dave would ever do that, he trusts him that much. It's everyone else - and he does mean _everyone_ else - that he doesn't trust. Things seem to have a way of getting around in this crowd, regardless of how trustworthy the ears you tell your secrets to seem to be or how alone you think you are. Once again, he troubles over whether he can endure several months of this lifestyle. He glances at Dave. He has one hand out the window, tapping his fingers on the door. He sings along to the music blaring over the wind, a relaxed smile playing across his lips. 

_"Just keep truckin' on..."_ He turns the music down and yells over the wind. "You know, this is basically their recruitment anthem. I mean, it's like one of _the_ most well-known songs, the first one people usually hear. Jane's livin' on vitamin C cause acid depletes you of vitamin C. Oh, we should get some orange juice next time we go to the store, we're gonna need it. Travelin', and the lights on the stage, realizing what a _long, strange trip it's been."_ Although Dave still has the scruffy semblance of a beard like a man, contentment softens the usual crease of concern between his brows. "Dude, think about it. These guys were just a humble little band, and they called together people from all over the _world_ and created an entire movement, they influenced a whole generation. It's all based on love and freedom and acceptance. Fuckin' incredible." He turns the volume up again, shaking his head with a small smile.

      The air is hot and sticky - the AC doesn't work, but, lucky for them, the heat does - and it buzzes with excitement and the promise of new experience. Karkat doesn't understand why everyone makes such a big deal about traveling with Dead and Co. It's not even the actual band. But there's an air of intrigue surrounding the subculture, and unfortunately, all of his friends are a part of it. Dave has promised him over and over again that it's a life-changing experience, that he knows to the very core of his soul that it will help Karkat. The stress of uncertainty and barely scraping by is almost too much to even think about, but he has to try. At the very least, he has to try. 

      A party has already assembled itself in the friend's living room. He introduces himself as Mallek and shakes hands with Dave and John, ignoring the girl and the angry-looking guy. They both take this dismissal in stride, used to being the disabled one and the outsider, respectively. Mallek does not immediately seem to be the kind of person to go to a jam band concert, with the numerous facial piercings and mohawk. He wears his pants low, probably weighed down by the chains swinging from his pockets. More of a punk than a hippie, especially with that mischievous grin that quirks in a way that says he isn't afraid of authority. Different kinds of rebel, but rebel all the same. He fist bumps The Bee Guy and they chat as they walk out to the garage, leaving the other four behind. The few people sitting in the living room raise their beers and joints in acknowledgement. 

      Given the chance, John presses his face against the nearest snake tank that nearly reaches the ceiling. A bright yellow boa curled around a wooden perch raises its head and flicks its tongue at him in interest. He continues to delight himself with the various reptiles, sticking his tongue out and taking selfies with them. 

      Dragonfly slumps onto the couch, still pouting about her fight with The Bee Guy. The woman beside her glances over briefly before peeling a can of beer off the pack on the table and offering it to her. She takes it with a whispered thanks, chugs half of it, and they both blankly stare at the NASCAR race playing on the TV. 

      Dave, the extrovert in denial, immediately launches into his 'sup I'm Dave, you excited about the show?' opener. It gets them talking, as it always does, and the conversation is smooth and easy from there. On the spot, sitting on the arm of a lazy boy chair with the stuffing bulging out from the seat, he sells an entire sheet of acid. Karkat notes to ask him about where in the car he's keeping it, but to his surprise, Dave rummages through The Bee Guy's vehicle to grab it. While he's out, The Bee Guy and Mallek meet him outside with two long, green tanks. After the three of them secure it underneath a blanket in the trunk, they lazily insert themselves into the living room's conversation. Karkat tenses a little now that he's traveling the country with two extremely illegal substances. But, he trusts Dave and The Bee Guy to keep it out of his vehicle. Mostly.

      No one seems to be making any moves to leave. An hour passes, then another. Karkat wonders how much there is to say about the same band, the same songs, the same venues that they've all been to a hundred times, the same people. He sits on the arm of the couch and leans down to whisper in Dave's ear, "What are we waiting for?" 

      "Nothin', I don't think. We're just chillin'." He pulls away to jump back into the conversation, and Karkat sits back into his seat, sighing irritably. Another twenty minutes passes, and, unable to jump into the conversation without being stared at like he has two heads, he whispers to Dave again. "Dude, chill. We're not on a schedule or anything, it's not like we're going to be late. Just chill," he says gently, offering a small smile. He tries to turn away again, but Karkat tugs on the shoulder of his shirt.

      "We can't do this once we get there? We're not waiting on anything, we're just wasting time. Who even gets to say when it's time to leave, who's the pack leader here?" Karkat glances around in scrutiny, glaring at Dave when he snorts out a laugh.

      "You're a trip, dude." He turns away and loudly announces, "Hey, y'all, wanna bust out of here and head to the show soon?" They all make noncommittal sures and nod-shrugs, but they only slide back into talking, and show no signs of peeling their cheeks away from their cushions. Even Dave joins back in, chuckling and making snide remarks. Karkat taps his foot impatiently, grinding his teeth as he waits. Yet another too-long passes without anyone mentioning leaving. Karkat taps Dave's shoulder, but before he can open his mouth, Dave says, "Yeah these guys ain't never gonna get off their asses. We can just go if you want." Before he even finishes his statement, Karkat stands up and strides towards the front door. "Alright, we're gonna head out. Anyone wanna come with us?" They ignore them, but as the two move towards the door, Dragonfly and her new friend join them. 

       Although the two of them only exchanged their names, and a few rude remarks aimed at the other boys, Dragonfly decides she greatly approves of Polypa. Perhaps for those very reasons. "I got a friend that makes jewelry on lot. They like giving things out for free." Dragonfly shrugs.

      "I don't really wear a lot of jewelry. I always end up losing it."

      "Sure, but you should really meet them, they'd like you."

      "Why would I care if they like me or not?" Polypa grins behind the paper mask covering her mouth. She's glad that Dragonfly can't see it. She pulls on the white sleeves of her shirt at the wrist, letting in some air to cool her damp skin. Sweat collects under her bangs and the back of her neck. She pulls her hair into a ponytail and leans against the door so that the wind goes down the back of her shirt. Dragonfly frowns deeply, twisting her fingers around each other with restless energy.

      "They're agender, you know."

      "Okay. I don't really care or see why that matters."

      "Do you know what that means?" Dragonfly sighs.

      "No, I don't. But I can take a guess. Unless you're going to tell me, whether I want you to or not."

      "Nah, like you said, you don't care. That's another reason they'll like you." Dragonfly grins. It feels nice to be back on tour, meeting new people. She knew it was a good idea, and she revels in the anticipation of getting to rub it in The Bee Guy's face.

      Shakedown is set across the street from the amphitheater, in an open field beneath an overpass. Behind the blaring music, the sound of cars rushing above them plays constantly, adding to the ambiance. Polypa silently leads her to the fabled Charun, and Dragonfly is grateful to finally have a friend that doesn't talk just to hear their own voice. They stop at a booth near the center covered in hand-made sculptures. She hears the light tinkling of wind chimes above her. After introductions, Charun guides Dragonfly's hand to a sculpture on the table, describing in a lazy voice how they made the bumps and bubbles. 

      "Yeah, alright, but it still smells like the dumpster you scrounged your materials from. Am I right, or am I right?" An obnoxious voice says beside her. It's unnecessarily loud, and carries the weight of someone who thinks they're burdened with always being right. Charun ignores the comment, releasing Dragonfly's hand to pull something out from one of the cases sitting on the ground behind them. Dragonfly turns to the girl beside her with narrowed eyes.

      "And what exactly is the point of ragging on someone's artwork that they've spent time and energy making? They're just trying to make a living, same as everyone else. You could find something to complain about the food vendors, vendors selling clothes-"

      "Oh, she does," Charun says, grabbing Dragonfly's hand again. They slip something onto her finger as they speak. "She isn't afraid to voice her complaints, either. All the time. Constantly. It literally _never_ ends."

      "Hey, you don't get special treatment just cause we're friends."

      "Are we, Vriska? _Are_ we friends?" Charun turns their back on Vriska's remark. "I made this out of a spoon I found, but I accidentally burned some holes in it and melted it a bit too much. I wasn't going to sell it because it's ugly as shit, but if you like the way it feels, you can have it." Dragonfly runs her thumb over the ring. It's shaped like a small, lopsided bubble with a curled edge, and all throughout it are ragged holes. She thanks them, and musters up a small smile.

      "So you're blind?" Vriska asks, following her as she starts to peel away from the booth to wander on her own. 

      "Yeah, what of it?" She waves a hand in front of her face, and Dragonfly knocks it away. "I can still see shadows, dumbass. That's rude, you know. "

      "I was just asking cause you haven't commented on my clothes yet. Most people do. I'm wearing a pirate costume." 

      "Why?" Vriska puffs her chest out, crosses her arms and raises her nose in the air.

      "Cause I _want_ to. Got a problem with that?" Dragonfly stops to feel along Vriska's arm. The shirt is light and airy, tucked into tight leather pants with a belt hanging from her hips. She feels Vriska stiffen as she runs her fingers along her hip, along the various pouches and knives, chains, useless instruments. No doubt she's wearing tall boots with a knife strapped to her thigh. Just because she wants to, and definitely not to get some extra attention. Who is Dragonfly to deny the needy? 

      "I think it's pretty cool, actually," she says honestly. Vriska looks her up and down in assessment. 

      "I got some more. If you want to try them on." Dragonfly grins.

_"Hell_ yeah."

      The Bee Guy and Mallek set up a large boombox to cover up the loud roar of the nitrous tanks. A grumpy vendor across the aisle passive aggressively turns his own stereo up, and they flash him a couple pairs of thumbs up. The more noise, the better. He glares at first, then laughs and waves at them amiably as he watches a packet of balloons fall to the ground. John squeezes himself between the two of them to watch and fill up a few balloons himself. "And you're sure this isn't illegal?" he asks, again. 

      "Dude, you can literally get a refill station online," Mallek says irritably. "Or you can buy a pre-filled tank online whenever the fuck you want. You gonna sell anything or not?" 

      After a few short moments, John walks away with colorful balloons between each of his fingers. He stands at the back end of the lot where people meander between aisles, away from the thrum of the overhead traffic. What a lovely loophole they've found, he thinks. He calls out jovially, his young voice interrupting all conversations within hearing distance, "Fifteen bucks! Just fifteen bucks a balloon! Choose your own color!" He's hardly through his first round of announcements before a small crowd gathers around him. Conversations be damned, they've been hungry for half an hour of elation in five minute bursts. He holds one hand above his head to let others know he's there. Within minutes, his hands are empty and his pockets are full. 

      Just as he holds his palms out in apology, Mallek yells a few yards away, wiggling his own balloons in the air. The crowd shifts over to him, and John laughs his way back to the car. Sollux is digging through a cooler in the trunk, talking to a girl who holds a jar of honey. As John fills up more balloons, he watches Sollux hand her a bee-shaped chocolate wrapped in foil. The two of them fill all the spaces between his fingers, and he takes long strides to get back to his post before Mallek runs out. On his way, he sees a woman with a balloon between her lips fall to the ground, a long grin pasted to her cheeks. The friends around her scurry in circles, nearly trampling her to catch the balloon as it twirls through the air. John laughs again and nods to Mallek as they rush past each other. 

      Beside the scurrying delivery boys for the nitrous business, Dave and Karkat have just come back from their first walk around Lot, scoping out the scene. There are never very many vendors at this venue since the amphitheater doesn't allow sellers in the actual parking lot. Dave raves about how back in the day, they would have gotten away with it. Anywhere the Grateful Dead went, whether it was legal or not, Shakedown was always exactly where it should be, and it was _always_ booming. The cops knew to make exceptions for them, not to mess with them or risk facing the wrath of the Hell's Angels. And anyways, the Angels eventually started working for the band, so at least for a night or two, the concert hall would be a safe haven. Now, they don't even let you _sleep_ in the lots.

      Karkat opens the back of the car, reaching for the small folded table, but Dave slaps his hand out of the way. He yells over the traffic, "Not yet, man. You gotta go see Rose. It's a Lot tradition. She gives these amazing predictions for summer tour that are totally one hundred percent accurate." 

      Karkat glares at him, then turns back to the table again and says, "You go ahead, I'm going to set up my stand." Dave slaps him again, and this time shoves him out of the way and closes the trunk.

      "Nuh-uh. We'll get you set up by the first rush and you'll be sold out before the second one. You're a Lot rat now, you gotta have the _full_ experience. It's bad luck not to see her, come on." Karkat tries to argue, but Dave overpowers him and drags him away by the wrist. There are a few people Karkat recognizes from the Dark Star show, but Dave doesn't stop to say hello. The only time their search for Rose is interrupted is when someone comes up to Dave first. They slap palms, discreetly exchanging small squares of paper for rectangular green ones. Karkat feigns ignorance, looking around as if he doesn't notice nor care. 

      Rose's stand is on the opposite side of Shakedown, in a quiet end away from the food and smells and commotion. The trunk of her SUV is open, with a few tapestries strung up to hide the inside. She sits on the edge with a small table in front of her covered with a purple patterned cloth, a jar with a big $5 written on it, and a green velvet bag. No signs, nothing to suggest what she might be selling or seeking; a secret gypsy, for Family only. A silk bandanna covers her short blonde hair, she wears a flowy linen dress, rings clutter her fingers, and a golden cuff wraps around her upper arm. Unsurprisingly, she looks like a goddess. 

      "Yo, what's up, sister from another mister?" Dave calls out as they approach.

      Rose smiles and twiddles her fingers at them. "It's the same mister, unfortunately. Glad to see you two decided to tour after all, you were on the fence for quite a while. I assume you're here for your summer reading?" She slides a box of cards out of the bag, studying them with eyes that seem too intense for their casual conversation.

      "Sure am. Karkat goes first." Dave nudges him towards the table. Karkat subconsciously turns his eyes away from her piercing stare as she waves a hand over the camping chair on the other side of the table. He pulls out a five and folds it into her money jar, already so stuffed full he has to give it an extra shove to keep it from fluttering away.

      "Have you had your cards read before?"

      "No. I think it's bullshit, actually. Douche lord is forcing me to be here. No offense, it's nice to see you again and everything." She slides the cards into her eager hand and begins shuffling them expertly. 

      "None taken. Whether you believe in them or not has no impact on their truth. It's nice to you again as well." She smiles kindly, and Karkat feels like he's dodged being scolded by his favorite teacher. "Now, take a few moments to clear your mind." She closes her eyes. He glances at Dave, who flashes him an encouraging thumbs up. Karkat closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing, feeling ridiculous and self-conscious. Using the meditation techniques Aradia had taught him once, he brings his attention to his breathing. Thinking of her stirs something around in his chest, but he pushes that away as well as his thoughts. There are too many noisy distractions around to tune them all out, so he listens to the faint shuffling of the cards in Rose's hands. 

      He's calmer and noticeably sleepier when she softly says, "Think about the summer ahead of you. What it feels like to you, your expectations, hopes, fears. Imagine where you'll go and what you'll do. Reach out around you, listen to the universe. It's already whispering guiding words to you, all you have to do is listen." She's quiet for a little longer as Karkat attempts to do as she says, without really understanding what it means. He brings his consciousness outside of himself, straining his ears towards the sky as if the words were going to tumble from God's mouth directly. "Funnel the answers you've received into the cards, channeling the energy. Don't worry if you're doing it wrong, the cards will capture the correct meaning." She's quiet again, giving him space to do as directed. "Open your eyes. Pick three cards from anywhere in the deck. Don't think about it too hard." 

      The cards are spread out on the table in an arch. Without thinking, he puts a finger on one and slides it out in front of them, then repeats the action twice more. "The way I've structured the reading is more or less how you will be coming into tour, your experience, and what you will walk away with. Is that acceptable?" Karkat nods, and she flips the first card on his left. A woman, bound and blindfolded, stands on watery earth surrounded by swords. It's upside down, her head facing Karkat. Rose pauses with her mouth slightly parted, as if she were interrupted before she could speak. "Although this card is reversed, I believe that you embody this card fully. Upright _and_ reversed. Your inner world is rife with negativity and discouragement; you are your own worst critic, as they say. You're holding yourself back willfully because you don't believe you're capable of... well, anything. You settle for the status quo because you believe that's where you belong." Karkat sighs through his nose and crosses his arms defensively. It's frustratingly correct, of course. 

      Before he can open his mouth to defend himself, Rose continues. "However, your soul feels trapped in this predicament. It dreams of bigger things, better things. Deep inside, you have hope and high expectations - for yourself, the people around you, life - and you're tired of settling. That's why you've decided to come on tour. To challenge yourself, throw yourself outside of your comfort zone with no easy way to get back inside of it in the hopes that instead of staring at the open door of your cage helplessly, you'll finally be able to fly without the fear of falling. Does that make sense?"

      She sits back with a small smirk, knowing damn well it makes all the sense in the world. Karkat's accusative eye squint freezes. "Well, it doesn't _not_ make sense. I guess there are a lot of expectations I have for myself, specific reasons for going on tour in the first place." He shrugs noncommittally. She looks at him expectantly, and he straightens in his chair, leaning in to lower his voice so only the two siblings hear him. "I have a lot of, you know, anxiety or whatever. It makes me - I mean, it doesn't _make_ me do anything, but I hold back a lot-"

      "He's a control freak," Dave blurts. 

      "Yes, Dave, thank you for putting it _so_ eloquently. I'm a control freak, so I was hoping that by going on tour, where I would have little to no control over things, I'd be able to-"

      "Unclench his asscheeks." Dave nods matter-of-factly, and Karkat glares at him.

      "How sweet, the two of you are even finishing each other's sentences. No need to go on, I know my predictions are accurate." Quickly, she flips over the second card and launches into her interpretation. "This card is a major arcana which means that this summer will be very important to your life's journey, influencing the rest of your time on earth." In the center of the card is a moon and sun combined, with towers on either side. A dog and a wolf howl at the sky on either side of a narrow path, and a lobster crawls out of a pool of water at the bottom. "How fitting; The Moon represents anxiety, illusion. The things you're hiding from yourself - the root of your fear - will be exposed, forcing you to use your intuition rather than your intellect to get through difficult situations. Essentially, you'll be _thrown_ out of your self-made cage. You'll definitely have the challenging inner journey that you're hoping for. Though I want to remind you that it's up to you what you do with the lessons you learn, the skills you've gained, the perspectives that have shifted. You've been riding through life through pure intellect, but that will only get you so far, as I'm sure you know. Be patient with yourself." She doesn't ask for an affirmation this time. Despite himself, Karkat feels a trickle of relief and dread. It's all bullshit, though, obviously.

      "Don't worry dude, we got your back. We're all on this journey together. Right, Rose?" Rose, still looking at Dave's hand on Karkat's shoulder, nods with a knowing smile.

      "Certainly." She pauses, and when no one else speaks, she flips over the final card. A woman with a halo pets a lion. In thick black letters, it says STRENGTH. "Oh, this is very good news! You'll learn to trust yourself, you'll gain inner strength. Karkat, you'll finally be able to fly. Because you will have discovered your inner power, a more accurate idea of your abilities, you won't have to have so much external control. You'll believe in yourself enough to trust that you'll be able to handle an uncertain situation if it comes up. That's not to say your anxiety will completely disappear, but you'll be able to tame it, to live despite it. It's the first step to being truly free." She searches his eyes, and Karkat tries desperately not to show hope. He looks away. "But in order to stoke the flames of your new being, you should also probably consider therapy." Dave groans.

      "She always says that, after every single reading, to everybody."

      "False. I say it to _you_ after every single reading, because you've lived a traumatic life-"

      "Yeah, yeah, whatever, it's my turn." He excitedly shoves Karkat out of the way as he takes the seat. Rose stares at him with a raised eyebrow, glancing down at her money jar. "What, I don't get a family discount?"

      "Sure. Four dollars." He grumbles and shoves in a five. She cuts the deck in her palms a few times, mixing the cards up. 

      Dave slaps his hands together and rubs them as she shuffles the cards, instructing him to close his eyes and clear his mind. Karkat can see his eyes behind his sunglasses (he has no concept of being prepared except when it comes to sunglasses, since he has an extra one tucked into his backpack), twitching with the effort of staying closed. His hands rest on his knees, tapping idly. She tells him the same that she told Karkat, to focus the energies of the summer onto the cards. He holds a finger to his temple, and holds his other hand above Rose's hands as she continues to shuffle them. He keeps the hand on his temple as he chooses the cards, then hunches forward with his fingers steepled in front of his mouth dramatically. The first card is of a disembodied hand holding a stick.

      "Holy shit, look, it's the stick up Karkat's ass!" He giggles, grinning over at Karkat, who flips him off, trying not to smile. Rose narrows her eyes, but the gaze is aimed at the card.

      "It's a wand, actually." Prematurely, she flips the other two cards over, examining them before lifting her mild glare. "Dave, why have you fucked up a perfectly good thing?" She points to the Ace of Wands. "You were in a _really_ good place. You've never gotten a positive card before, but this says that you were stable, happy. Happier than you've been in a _long_ time. You were in a place where you could heal and grow, possibly reach your full potential. And you threw all of that away to come on tour?" She looks at him disapprovingly, waiting for him to explain himself.

      "That's what _I_ said. He was staying with me, had a real job. He even said he was thinking about trying to get actual gigs playing his music, at bars and shit." Karkat says.

      "Hey, I'm still going to do that after tour. I'm not absolutely ruining my life for putting things on pause to go on the _very last concert ever_ by my _favorite band in the whole world."_ He splays his hands out, palms up. 

      "You and I both know that's not true. You were reckless, as usual, and you're lucky that it seems this year will be beneficial for you."

      "Yeah, I mean, check it. I'll be gettin' naked with someone, that's what that means, right? It's the Summer of Love all over again, the Summer of Strider Love." He wiggles his tongue in the air as he points to the second card. There's a naked man and woman with a large angel above them, and trees flanking them on either side. It's The Lovers, featuring a phallic mountain in the background, which Rose notes is where Dave's eyes linger. 

      "It does not necessarily mean you will have loads of wild sex, but I do believe that you will find love. It won't be hot, meaningless sex, but sex with a spiritual connection. Potentially, it could mean you've found a close bond in any form of relationship, but for you specifically, I believe it does indicate romance. In fact, I think you've already found this person, and the events of this summer will bring that realization to the forefront of your mind. I also think you already know who this person is, and that they think the same of you." She stares hard at Karkat, and Dave's eyes flick over to him. "But neither of you are ready to bring your relationship to the next level. You will, though, and very soon. It will develop deeply and quickly and last a lifetime. Excuse me, I shouldn't be so presumptuous. I do not necessarily mean that you will be with this person for the rest of your life - though that's also a possibility - but that your relationship will affect all those that come after it, romantic and otherwise, and leave a very important mark on your life. It will completely change your perception of your relationship with yourself, others, and life itself. It is a very life-changing sort of romance." 

      Both boys avoid eye contact, shuffling their feet in the awkwardness. Dave rubs the back of his reddening neck. "Heh, see? Doesn't look too bad. If I didn't go on tour, I wouldn't, you know... all that." He waves his hands vaguely at the table. Rose stares at him hard.

      "Indeed. However, had you decided not to go on tour, you likely wouldn't have had to face the consequences. At least, not in such a serious manner." She pushes the third card forward for emphasis. A woman with a crown sits on a throne, holding a sword in one hand, and a balance in the other. Rose lowers her voice. "Justice, Dave. You will no longer get away with doing whatever you want. The law _will_ catch up to you, and you'll have to face the consequences. I know I won't be able to convince you to close down your hustle, but please be careful. By the end of the summer, you'll get what you deserve. In the eye of the law, anyways. And you'll have no one to blame but yourself." She sits back as Dave quietly leans over to study the cards. The corners of his mouth are turned down.

      "Well that's pretty dismal. Are the readings always this intense?" Karkat asks.

      "When it's for people going on tour, yes. There's really something about being on the road. Like the veil between Here and There is just a _little_ thinner. Strange things happen." Rose slips the cards back into the deck, and she shuffles them absently. 

      "Yeah, like once, I was hitchhiking, and I was standing in front of a gas station, completely broke. All I wanted was a fuckin' cigarette. Before I could even think about asking someone, some guy walks out and hands me a brand new pack. Says he only wanted one. And right there by my foot, a lighter. I still have it." Dave starts to reach into his pocket, but stops. "Oh, yeah. I forgot. Anyways, point is, when you take a step out of the grind, the universe will look out for you. Just go with the flow, ride the waves and it _will_ provide."

      "Really? That's your story of incredible synchronicity?" Karkat rolls his eyes.

      "At the very moment I was thinking about how bad I wanted a ciggie, someone handed me an _entire pack._ How are you not impressed by that?"

      "I'd be more impressed if the universe provided you with a cold bottle of water, or your very own car. How about some money to buy your _ow_ _n_ cigarettes?"

      "Man, that's not the point. The essentials, the journey - that part's up to me. But the cigarettes were a sign that, like, I don't know. That I'm on the right path or whatever. That there's someone out there lookin' out for me. There's no such thing as coincidences."

      "Uh huh. Sure. I'll believe it when I see it."

      "You'll see it. Trust me, by the end of the summer, you'll be the one preaching about it."

      "Sure. Now let's go, I want to set up my stand and start making some money." He thanks Rose and stands. Seeing Dave linger, opening his mouth to talk to his sister, Karkat pulls on the back of his collar until he follows. Dave promises Rose that he'll come by, when he's out of the iron grip of his high-strung travel partner.

      "Remember to practice patience, Karkat! It makes all the difference," she calls after them as they walk away. Dave is oddly quiet, looking straight ahead with a steady stare. 

      "Did that reading worry you?" Dave shrugs, forcing his shoulders to relax.

      "Eh. I'll survive." 

      Back at the car, John and Mallek have locked themselves in The Bee Guy's car. They suckle a pair of balloons, staring at the dashboard in awe as techno music seeps from the windows. The Bee Guy is gone, and so is his cooler. Presumably taking the business out on the town, making home deliveries to his long-time customers. 

      Karkat slides out the table and tote full of supplies as Dave untangles the camping grill from various cords and plastic bags. So many plastic bags. As he sets up the grill, Karkat sets out paper towels, a roll of foil, hand sanitizer, utensils. Bread, butter and cheese. Then he pulls out the cooler with all the drinks and tapes the cardboard sign they had already made with all the prices onto the front of the table. Before they even finish, someone is already waiting with money in hand. Anxiety sends a shock through Karkat's nervous system, and he gets the urge to run. From the corner of his eye, he sees Dave jerking his hand out of the grill, shaking the lighter in his hand.

      "Alrighty, the first grilled cheese is grillin'. And it's all yours, little man." Dave grins sloppily at the young kid, placing a slice of cheese on the bread already buttered and cooking. Karkat shakes himself out of his anxiety stupor, and takes the money from the kid, watching him scamper back to his RV right across the aisle with his change. 

      It starts out as a trickle, and Karkat tells Dave to fuck off and give him some breathing room. He leans back in the shitty lawn chair with the frayed seams, his eyes scanning the field of slowly growing people. Not many buy from him at first, and he worries that it won't be enough to make a living off of. As the show grows closer, more people wait around their humble stand for a classic Lot grilled cheese. They fall into an easy rhythm, with Karkat buttering the bread for the next round, and handling the money while Dave hands off the foiled sandwich. For a while, they're able to get ahead and leave a few pre-made sandwiches warming on the upper shelf of the grill.

      An hour before the show, Karkat realizes with horror that the business may be going _too_ well. A crowd of people shout at him, wave money in his face, ask for tomatoes, if they have anymore root beers. Somehow, they manage to adjust their tempo. Dave grills the cheeses, keeping them entertained with his laughter and easy conversation, making new connections. Always. Beside him, a frazzled Karkat stuffs money into his fanny pack, wraps the sandwiches in foil and hands them out. Says no tomatoes, out of root beers, do _not_ have the time to break a hundred, fuck off. As the sun goes down, it's harder to see people's faces. He's pretty sure he gave away a few free dinners, and accidentally lost a few customers by demanding they pay twice, or ignoring them entirely. 

      It whirls by in a chaotic blur of shouting and dirty hands. Hardly any time at all seems to have passed when Dave announces, "This is the last cheese, and it goes to this lucky dude right here." He points his greasy spatula at the kid that had also gotten the first one. He squeals, jumping up and down. Half a loaf by itself probably went to that kid. The semi circle around them dissipates almost immediately. "We're sold out, holy shit! We didn't even get to the rush _after_ the show. You're killin' it, dude." He grins over at Karkat, who collapses into a chair with a huff, wiping the sweat from his temples. 

      Dave wraps up the sandwich and hands it off, then lights a cigarette as he leans against the back of the car. The sky had darkened without them noticing, casting the small shakedown in the orange lights of a few tall lamps. Across the road and on the other side of the actual parking lot, the stadium buzzes with muted cheers. The ground underneath the table is littered with torn foil, pieces of paper towel, and globs of butter lost to the mud. Karkat bends to start picking up.

      "I told you you'd make enough money. Didn't I?" Dave boasts, kneeling to help him. Karkat doesn't have it in him to spit back a witty reply.

      "That was... fucking crazy. I can't believe I did that without having a panic attack."

      "And it was kinda fun, wasn't it?" He grins cheekily.

      "Yeah, it actually kind of was." Karkat grins back. Evaporating adrenaline leaves exhilaration in its wake. Proudly, he squeezes the fanny pack around his hips, fat with money. Dave pulls out a joint and takes a few puffs before handing it to Karkat. He hesitates, then takes it. 

      They sit back in their chairs, counting their respective earnings. Karkat's little stand earned a couple hundred bucks, which is more than he was expecting, but only enough profit for a couple tanks of gas. Just enough to get to the next show and buy a few meals for himself. Still, with the few people milling about that couldn't get into the show, the few waters and sodas that are left continually add to his stack. They watch the kid and his probable twin run circles around a man with a guitar. It's the only music now that Mallek, John, and everyone else have closed down their businesses to go into the show. Aside from The Bee Guy, who sits on his cooler beside his car, smoking a joint. He looks somber, and Karkat feels compelled to talk to him.

      Dave listens to the man play his guitar poorly, with unsure fingers and hesitating notes. His voice almost makes up for it, melodic and husky. Sexy, even. As Dave listens, a woman walks across his line of sight. She wears a skimpy tank top and shorts, with a mess of thick, knotted hair. She catches his gaze and squeals, much like the child had, and runs towards him. "Dave! Hi! It's been so long!" Her voice pierces through the wave of peaceful quiet that had settled over them. He chuckles a bit and uses the pitiful few signs he knows to supplement his reply.

      "Hey, Meulin, what's happenin'? You didn't buy nothin' from me, you broke or somethin'?" 

      "Oh! Well, actually, I got some from my boyfriend, Kurloz." She points to the happy little family with the RV, at the guy sitting on the front steps with a fat cigar between his lips. "You should come say hi, come on!" She tugs on his hand, grinning so wide her eyes wrinkle closed. This idea makes him uncomfortable, getting friendly with his competition. But it's maybe not a bad one. 

      The kid that had been buying sandwiches from them hops up and wraps Dave's legs in his arms. His twin mopes, arms crossed and a pout on her lips. They look exactly the same, with the same long, curly brown hair and face paintings that have been mostly scrubbed away, except for a few pieces still sticking to the corners of their eyes and by their ears. The only difference is that the girl wears a long, worn-out dress, tattered at the bottom.

      "Marvus, this is Dave. Dave, this is Marvus!" 

      The guitar player nods at Dave in acknowledgement. "Sup, brother?" 

      "Hey, man, what's happenin'?" Dave watches Melin saunter over to the guy with the cigar. He wraps an arm around her waist, smiling.

      "Just trying to figure this thing out. Music ain't really my thang, know what I mean?" 

      "Yeah, I hear ya. Took me a while to get the hang of it, too. That's a helluva voice you got, though, you could get rich with that." He glows with pride and offers Dave a friendly handshake.

      "Wanna show me how it's done?" He gets up, waving his hands at the chair he had been sitting in, and sets the guitar in Dave's lap. The boy still clings to Dave, hopping up and down and grinning up at him. He holds onto the arm of the chair, bouncing on his bare toes, as his sister plops onto the ground with an irritable sigh. Dave strums a bit, watching him go up and down, up and down, over and over. 

      At the first few flicks of the [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-9AUiLJnoDg&list=PLjiXBRzEjI2_tAiY6rGiBzUawGJRmGQtl&index=8), the kid yelps and jumps in a circle, then calms to a content sway, nodding his head and humming along. _"If you go down to the woods today... you're sure of a big surprise."_ He sings along with the lyrics, shouting them far above Dave's own voice. Dave laughs, watching him turn in a dizzying circle and collapsing to the ground. At the end of the song, even the pouty kid jumps to her feet. She shoves her brother out of the way, causing him to take the place of ground-pouter. 

      "Do Jenny Jenkins next! Do Jenny Jenkins, _please?"_ Dave sucks a breath in through his teeth.

      "I don't really know the words to that one-"

      "I do! You just play the music, I'll sing!" Dave shrugs. After listening to the song a few times and playing around with the chords, he finds a suitable rhythm. To his surprise, as he plays, the sound of a mouth harp pings behind him. The now-cheerful kid and Marvus sing the song together, harmonizing surprisingly well. The girl fumbles a bit on the hard parts, but giggles madly at her father's perfect recitation of the lyrics. They grab hands and dance in a little circle. At the end of the song, with the reveal that Jenny Jenkins will just live in the world naked, the girl bends over and flips her dress over her head, wiggling her bare butt in the air. Marvus howls with laughter and slaps it hard enough to leave a red mark, but the girl only collapses to the ground in a fit of giggles. 

      Even the boy takes a break from his moodiness to display his own bare cheeks, until Marvus tackles him to the ground and forces him to put his pants back on. As they beg him to play another song, Dave's own good mood startles to a halt. A forlorn teen with dirty socks shoved into his slides bumps fists with Marvus. Dave ignores the kids pulling on his arm and shoving at each other to watch. Marvus pulls him inside the RV, Kurloz follows, and Meulin leans against the back of Dave's chair. Dave's eyes flick back over to Karkat, and he's reassured that his friends are safe. Karkat reads a paperback with a clip-on book light, leaning against Bee's car. The unlit joint hangs from the corner of his mouth, forgotten. Hunched over his knees on top of his little cooler, The Bee Guy he continues to mourn whatever it is his gloomy heart is mourning at this moment. Fleetingly, Dave wonders where Dragonfly is.

      He scans the aisle, peering between cars and shadows for the Joker. Dave leans the guitar against the chair, ignoring the kids protests. He had almost been excited to find someone with a guitar that he could befriend, even if they were technically the competition. Now that he knows they're associated with the _actual_ enemy, he'll have to find somewhere else to get his musical satisfaction. "Yeah, uh... later, maybe, aight? I gotta get back to my friend over there." He points to Karkat, shaking off the whining. "Nice seein' you, Meulin. We'll hang sometime, yeah?" She grins and flashes a peace sign. They both know they probably won't hang out, unless her and her new man break up and she needs somewhere else to get a few hits. 

      He takes Karkat's phone, and gets on his knees to inspect the tires in the light. "What are you doing?" Karkat asks, following as Dave crawls to each tire. 

      "The Joker's here."

      "Yeah, so? We knew that already." Dave points to Meulin and the kids. Karkat looks, and sees Bull climbing out of the RV, the pockets of his oversized jeans round with money. "What am I missing here?"

      "He knew exactly where we would be, and he planted his guys right across from us. He's already stolen some of my customers. He's keepin' an eye on us. He's planning somethin'." Dave glares over at the men now climbing back onto the grass. Marvus picks up the guitar, and laughs as the kids surround him, yelling about the corn song. 

      "The Joker's a sneaky piece of shit, but I think you're just being paranoid. Why would he want to mess with you over one fight? He's probably been in fights with plenty of people."

      "Yeah, but I beat the _shit_ out of him. If it wasn't for his fuckin' goons, I'd've won. It's about pride, and I demolished his. And I know about his little dusting operation, so I'm at risk for rattin' on him." Assured that their tires haven't been slashed - yet - he stands.

      "Well, if he did get his guys to keep an eye on you, maybe it's just to intimidate you into keeping your mouth shut. Or so they can take action if you do. But you're not going to, so there's nothing to worry about. It doesn't mean he's planning something, and if he was, why would he want you to know?"

      "Pride, dude, I told you. He _wants_ me to know that he's planning something. He wants me to think he's just _so_ fucking smart." He looks across the way again. Marvus's friendly grin slithers up his cheeks, and he nods in greeting. Dave nods back, frowning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I grew up listening to Not For Kids Only, it's so nostalgic it hurts. My mom painted our back door with the cover for Teddy Bear's Picnic.


	13. The Music Never Stopped

 

[_There's mosquitoes on the river_  ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQyci8_54gU)

_Fish are rising up like birds_

_It's been hot for seven weeks now_

_Too hot to even speak now_

_Did you hear what I just heard?_

 

_Say it might have been a fiddle_

_Or it could have been the wind_

_But there seems to be a beat now_

_I can feel it in my feet now_

_Listen here it comes again_

 

_There's a band on the highway_

_They're high steppin' into town_

_It's a rainbow full of sound_

_It's fireworks, calliopes and clowns_

_Everybody's dancin'_

 

_Come on children, come on children_

_Come on clap your hands_

 

_The sun went down in honey_

_And the moon came up in wine_

_You know stars were spinnin' dizzy_

_Lord the band kept us so busy_

_We forgot about the time_

 

_They're a band beyond description_

_Like Jehovah's favorite choir_

_People joining hand in hand while_

_The music played the band_

_Lord they're setting us on fire_

 

_Crazy rooster crowin' midnight_

_Balls of lightnin' roll along_

_Old men sing about their dreams_

_Women laugh and children scream_

_And the band keeps playin' on_

 

_Keep on dancin' through the daylight_

_Greet the mornin' air with song_

_No one's noticed, but the band's all pack and gone_

_Was it ever there at all?_

_But they keep on dancin'_

 

_Come on children, come on children_

_Come on clap your hand_

 

_Well, the cool breeze came on Tuesday_

_And the corn's a bumper crop_

_And the fields are full of dancin'_

_Full of singin' and romancin'_

_But the music never stopped_

New York City, NY

 

      For the next few nights, the Madison Square Garden car garage is under lock down. It acts as a covered venue for every illicit activity that can't be shown in the daylight, and no one dares tell them to beat it. Even the NYPD keeps their distance, though they stand on the outskirts to direct and appease the public. Tents take the place of parking spots, glowing with lanterns and small, swirling lights. A bubble of excitement still surrounds the roadies, swelling with the beginnings of sharp consequence, and an air of celebration blankets every venue they visit, following the mass of mini vans and cars covered in stickers from city to city. It's still the beginning of tour, when old friends embrace for the first time since the days grew longer, product stock is still high, and dark schemes have yet to be put in motion.

      It serves as the much-needed distraction that Dragonfly craves. Just the road, dirty parking lots, and good music. No more finding things to do, when so many things find their way to her; there's hardly enough time to allow her all of the pleasures that greet her at every turn. No more thinking about Aradia; instead, she fumbles with the ruffles that hang from the front of Vriska's chest. Finally, a reprieve from the monotonous everyday distractions that she would normally cling to. And yet, the grin plastered to her face as she walks through a mist of bubbles in the dark garage feels stiff. She brings the cereal ball to her lips, biting into the THC-drenched fruity pebbles. Vriska throws an arm around her waist, guiding her around men in bright orange vests.

      "I got us some gels. Wanna go for round two?" Their last round of psychs from the Saratoga show has only just started to trickle out of their senses. Dragonfly takes the double dose and shoves the whole thing in her mouth. "I'm almost broke so we'll have to hold out for a bit, unless someone decides to give two beautiful girls the payment they deserve."

      "Payment for what?" 

      "For being fucking incredible. We don't get anywhere near enough goddamn appreciation, you and I. Don't act like you don't think the same." Vriska flicks her long hair over her shoulder, her eyes scanning the garage calculatingly. Dragonfly knows she's lying; she has a whole wad of cash in a satchel at the very bottom of her over-sized backpack. That's one of the reasons she likes Vriska, she's smarter than most. Doesn't care about honesty or morals, isn't delicate about people's feelings. She's chaotic and rough around the edges.

      "Why do we need appreciation from anyone else? I think we can do a fine enough job appreciating each other." Her fingers press into Dragonfly's skin a little deeper. 

      It's harder to find somewhere to share their private moment, but they eventually find a gas station bathroom down the block. Dragonfly swallows the gel packs, leaving a funny feeling in the back of her throat that she can't get rid of no matter what or how much she drinks. As she kneels between Vriska's legs, she uses the techniques that Aradia taught her, and bites back her tears at the memories. 

      Back at the garage, the world quickly starts to waver around her. Karkat snaps at her for being more of a nuisance than a help with the stand, and in an impulsive fury, she attacks him with a loaf of bread. Around Dave's laughter, Karkat easily fends her off and tells her for a last time to fuck off. She says she'll leave if he gives her twenty bucks, and he roughly stuffs a bill into her palm. As she darts away, she hears Dave say, "You know you're never gonna that back, right?" In a hazy self-deprecating high, she wanders around, slipping loosely from one moment to the next. Sometimes Vriska is beside her, and sometimes she finds herself talking to the ghost of her. She ends up in the arms of a man that smells like onions and alcohol, who has a cardboard side hanging from his neck offering free hugs. Intensely, he squeezes both of her shoulders, his eyes boring into hers. 

      "Lady, you're good. You're good up here," he lightly jabs at her forehead with a finger. "And you're good in here." It moves to her chest, just a few light pokes before the hand is returned to her shoulder. "I know it don't seem like it now, but you're loved. You're worthy. And you're good. I _know_ you are. You're _good."_  He hugs her again, and this time, she hugs back, squeezing him tightly. She desperately wishes his words were true. 

      Latula calls, leaving a voicemail asking about California and how the move is going. Reminding her not to slip up, to keep her head on straight. Dragonfly doesn't need to listen to it to know what she said. Vaguely, in a moment of clarity, she thinks that maybe she should have told her about Aradia, that maybe she could use some support from a more stable, rational person. Instead, she turns her phone off. She listens to Charun and Polypa bicker and praise the universe, the same old universe that's let her down time and time again. She links her arm in Vriska's, allowing her to be her guide through the city. She attempts to express herself, to alleviate herself of the intense thoughts clouding her mind. Her sentences are fragmented, and she finds it hard to get many words out at all, but they seem important. It seems important to get them outside of her.

      Vriska ignores her, indulging in her own hallucinations. If she squints hard enough, she knows it's a tree with a glowing building behind it, but it looks more like... "Shut up. Are you seein' this shit?" She hooks an arm around Dragonfly's neck and drags her face down to her level, pointing at the tree.

      "Uh... no." Dragonfly sighs and sucks her words back in.

      "Hm." Vriska keeps her eyes on the spindly tree ahead, tripping over a traffic cone, and then shoving it out of her way. She's entranced by the thin, leafless tree reaching into the dark night higher than the skyscrapers surrounding them. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," she whispers. When she reaches the tree, she stares up at it with a loosened jaw. It's made of pure golden energy, glittering in streams that writhe up and then down, cycling again and again. She moves her eyes up, towards the top, and watches the dark green branches, cast in shadows, reach down towards her. They stretch across the entire night sky, budding, growing, blooming, and then dying, constantly cycling through birth, life and death, thousands at a time, tangling around each other, knotting and unknotting, inflating and then crumbling, in the exact same moment. 

      "Vriska, I have to pee. Can you lead me to the porta potties?" She turns to Dragonfly, her eyes drifting past her face and to the entire pathway of golden glowing trees. Glitter sparkles off of them, dancing into the air, rising towards the moon. Intertwined within the branches is the Empire State Building, hundreds of people looking down on her. She looks around at all of them that pass, not sparing them a single glance, stuck in their own lives. "Vriska? Hello? Did you hear me?" 

      "Trust me. You don't want to go in there." Her memory fills with her own journey to the greens earlier in the day. It was dark, so dark. There were bugs everywhere, maggots climbing from the pools of piss and cockroaches forming from streams of vomit, spiders falling into her underwear as she hovered above the seat - all blurred at the edges and smearing together into massive waves of insects. If she weren't such an experienced tripper, she might have ran outside with her pants down. As it was, she was able to look around in disgust and marvel at how hard she was tripping and how good the gels were. Obviously it's good shit, she only buys from the big lady with the wild nest of matted hair. The master. She guides Dragonfly to some bushes out of the eyes of streetlamps. Another pair of tripping - in multiple ways - girls rise out of them, hiking up their shorts. "Here. You're hidden. Much better than the porta potties. _Trust_ me." Without questioning it, Dragonfly steps into the center of a bush and squats, shimmying her shorts down to her knees. 

      The branches scratch at her skin, but she lets her eyes close as her bladder empties. For a while, she rests her chin in her hands, letting herself drip dry, swaying slightly. These are her least favorite times, when nothing is happening. Nothing to engage her senses except the warped sound of traffic and sirens swirling in her ears. She wishes Aradia was there with her, squatting beside her and ranting about how trimmed and fake the gardens are. It's such a fake city, she thinks. All made out of concrete and filled with stores selling useless products to make money for people who only hoard it away in their greedy little safes. 

      If Aradia were here, she would say that as unfortunate as cities are, they're just the nest of another one of Mother Nature's children. 

      Before she can start to cry, Dragonfly shakes her butt a few times then stands, pulling up her underwear. "So, like, do you have a place we can stay tonight? We've been tripping for a long time and I'm kind of over it." She climbs back onto the sidewalk, adjusting the waistband of her pants. "Vriska?" She turns in a circle, no response. "God _dammit."_ She unclips her cane from her belt loop, and starts slowly down the street. Aradia would never wander away, leaving her stranded in a huge city with lots of crosswalks and crazy drivers and criminals. Of course, it's not all that unfamiliar; she had lived only a few hours away from New York throughout her young childhood, and they'd gone on plenty of family vacations here. But her childhood was a long time ago, and she grew used to the boring, calm suburbs of a boring, small city. She feels along the edge of bushes, buildings and plant beds, periodically calling out for Vriska. At the corner, waiting along with the beeping crosswalk thing, she taps against something that clinks. She wrinkles her nose and taps it again. 

      A low, strained voice says, "If you're looking for your pirate friend, she went-" A pair of jittery hands clamp on her shoulder and turn her in the opposite direction. 

      "That way. Straight ahead, she's a few yards away. Walking real slow like. Looking up at the trees. She fuckin' gone." This voice is louder, higher, buzzing with manic energy. The hands don't leave her shoulders, but shove her forward until she's stumbling. Though she's more confused than angry, she instinctively rams her elbows back towards him. Something wet is left on her skin where his hands had been. "Woah, alright, damn. Don't gotta go swinging those things around, those look sharp." He pinches her elbow, and she swings again, this time grazing his ribs. He cackles. "Yo, Raccoon, check this shit out." He roughly grabs her arm and holds out her elbow. A cold pair of fingers smooth across it, and the two of them laugh. "Wow, she's almost got you beat!" Dragonfly yanks her arm away in mild irritation and starts down the sidewalk again. He continues to tease her, chattering in her ear. As annoyed as she probably should be, she's relieved to have some company again, and let's him be. "Oop, stop right here." Those calloused hands are back on her bare shoulders, stopping her in her tracks and turning her to the side. "She's lying on the ground now. Completely engrossed in those tree branches. Wish I could be that interested in something." 

      Vriska lifts her head to blink at that blind girl and her new friends. A man with greasy hair that sticks to the sweat on his temples, his clothes stained and tattered. He talks so fast, his words get away from him, repeating one on top of another, echoing through her ears, a never ending stream of meaningless noises. Visibly, there are multiples of him, one on top of the other, vibrating. Ghosts moving before he does, imprints of where he was a second ago, shining in a kaleidoscope of colors. He offers her a few white pills gripped in his sweaty palms. "You want some speed to go with your friend Lucy there? Some good shit, _good_ shit!" He hollers loudly, jumping and pumping his fists in the air, bumping into someone that shoves him away with a violent threat.

      Without thinking much about it, she pulls out her wallet. The funny little man on the green rectangle points at her, ranting passionately about something important. She holds the bill to her ear, but his voice is still mute. All of the decorations covering the dollar swirl around him, and he swats at them irritably as he tries to climb out of his green prison. The greasy guy snaps his fingers in front of her face. "I can't hear you, man, sorry," she apologizes as she hands him over to the less-green and more damp man. She tucks the pills into a leather satchel tied to her belt for later. 

      Beside him, a girl with a tube taped to her cheek and going up her nostrils wheezes with a limp grin, staring at her. Her drooping shoulders appear to melt into the asphalt, her fingers freezing to the tank beside her. She sways, her dark eyes dripping heavily from their sockets. A hazy darkness hangs around her. "What's wrong with you?" Vriska asks, interrupting the guy's incessant talking. He simply turns the downpour to Dragonfly. The girl looks at her, pauses, then crouches to the ground. Vriska lifts herself up onto her elbows, peering at her in interest.

      "I'm dying." She slowly sits on the ground, sitting the tank between her legs. The guy still hasn't shut up, flitting around Dragonfly as she turns her head to listen, giggling in confusion and scoffing in mild irritation. The groups of people that wander by part around them like a stream, and Vriska looks up at them in wonder. "I'm Raccoon."

      "That's a dumb name. Who gave you that?"

      "Rat did." She points up at her friend. "Because of my eyes." Dark bruises ring her eyes, much like a raccoon.

      "And you named him Rat?" She grins.

      "Yeah, cause he's a rat bastard. No one else was going to give us lot names so we named ourselves. You know, before I kick the bucket." Vriska stares at her unabashedly, at the foreign plastic tube shoved up her nose that writhes like a worm, the oversize neon yellow t-shirt hanging over her baggy basketball shorts. Raccoon stares back, watching her reaction closely with a sad smile. 

      "Why are you here? Instead of, you know, with family, or at the hospital or whatever."

      "This _is_ my family. You, him, her. All these crazy misfits and psychos. I'd rather die here than locked in some room strapped down to a bed, thinking about dying all the time. fucked up on so many meds I don't even know where I am. What'd you say your name was?" Vriska bites her lip, squinting her eyes as she shifts through the mass amount of stimulation entering her brain to find her name.

      "I'm Vriska, nice to meet ya." She holds out a hand cluttered with rings, and Raccoon takes it. 

      "Hey, that rhymed!" Rat bends to laugh in Vriska's face, and laughs even harder when she stands just to shove him away. 

      "God, I cannot _stand_ that guy!" Immediately, she's once again distracted by the glitter raining down on her from above, and starts to drift away. She reaches her fingers into the air to meet them halfway, and marvels at their light. Raccoon frowns, momentarily disappointed, then smiles at the beauty of illegal substances.

      They all wander together, Rat leading the way with his long, energetic footsteps, and Raccoon yelling for Vriska whenever she starts to diverge away from them. Dragonfly trips over her oxygen tank and falls on her face, then starts to cries about killing Raccoon. She puts a shaky, boney hand on Dragonfly's shoulder and looks her seriously in the eye. "I would be honored to die by your clumsy hands than the hands of death or cancer or any other bastard. On my deathbed, I'll stare that motherfucker in the face and laugh as he drags me to hell. At least then I'll have the answers, and that's all I give a shit about anymore."  

      "You're a lucky bastard." Rat reels her in gently and places a rough kiss on her cheek. It's hard to place their relationship; they don't at all look related, and they haven't acted like lovers, but there's a glaringly obvious affection between the two. They start walking again, slightly more subdued.

      "My girlfriend died a few months ago," Dragonfly blurts out. She tries to say more, but the words sizzle away on her tongue.

      "Good for her." Raccoon grins widely, her hollow cheeks pressing against her eyes in genuine glee. At Dragonfly's confused expression, she explains, "Life doesn't mean shit. We were never supposed to know that it ends, it changes the whole thing. That means that whatever happens _afterwards_ isthe important part. I was never meant to be here anyways, that's why they gotta kill me off early."

      "What do you mean, you were never meant to be here?" Raccoon is quiet for a moment, mulling over the question. 

      "Not that there's anything wrong with me, my spirit, who I am. But there's something wrong with the world. Society, humans, or maybe existence in any capacity was just... never supposed to be. Anyway you look at it, there's something off, in just being alive. Even before my entire body decided to revolt against me, I was sick of being alive. I was never depressed, just..."

      "Tired?" As Dragonfly acknowledges it, she feels her own exhaustion weighing on her body and mind.

      "Yeah, you get it. I don't belong here, and neither do you. Most of us don't. Maybe animals do, and maybe some people do. The ones that just go along with it without questioning anything, who think that voting for the right person will actually make a difference. They just do what they're told, follow the path that's laid out in front of them. The ones who never really try to look at themselves and figure out what the fuck they are. Seriously, what the fuck _am_ I?" She looks down at her hands, at the snaking veins that bulge out of her skin. "I'm not a body, it's just a cage. I'm sick of being trapped in it. So, yeah, your girlfriend is lucky cause she doesn't have to deal with all of this bullshit. You should be happy for her." Dragonfly twists her mouth in distaste, and says nothing.

      They circle back to the arena. Few people mill about, mostly people selling bogus tickets. A loud guy waves some papers in their faces - forty bucks per ticket, he's got ten of them - and Rat punches him sloppily in the face. Vriska still turns in a circle, lost in her high, and makes an amazing observation. "Did the concert already start?" Time had passed too quickly for them to keep up, and they find that there is a sudden stillness in the air. Just as soon as it had appeared, it's gone again. Hordes of people file out of the stadium, drunk and high and euphoric. The concert had started and ended before they even got the chance to search for tickets.

      Raccoon turns to Dragonfly and says, "We have a hotel room tonight if you guys need a place to stay. We decided to pay for a bunch of hotels and tickets instead of hospital bills." She winks, and Dragonfly smiles. It's rare that she has several options at the end of a concert. While a hotel room sounds nice, she thinks of The Bee Guy, and her chest clenches tight. With the familiar feeling of heaviness dragging through her entire body also comes the overwhelming desire to simply be held. 

      "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind, but I've got somewhere tonight." She looks to Vriska, whose mouth hangs open as she looks up at the empty sky, oblivious. "But feel free to take her." Raccoon chuckles lowly and watches Rat attempt again to talk to the lost pirate.

      "If you change your mind, we're in the Hilton on fifteenth, room 413. There's plenty of room." Dragonfly nods, and begins the journey to finding her slightly estranged boyfriend.

      The garage appears around her seemingly out of nowhere, humid and echoing with too many sounds, and she wonders how she made it at all. She asks around, and eventually comes to the sound of Karkat's unnecessarily loud voice stumbling through the rest of the noise. She passes the three boys, who stand around arguing with each other about where to eat. Denny's seems to be the conclusion they're drawing towards. 

      "Where have you been? I've been trying to get ahold of you all day. I was worried. Are you okay? You're fucked up, aren't you? What did you take? I knew it was a bad idea to come out here." The Bee Guy immediately sics himself upon her. She interrupts his stream of anxiety to wrap her arms around him, and bury her face in his neck. For once, he's quiet, and she soaks him in, centering herself against him. "Are you ready to go now?" His voice vibrates against her cheek.

      "Yeah, I'm exhausted. Where are we staying this time? Is there any nice BLM land close by, or is it just another Walmart parking lot?" There's a pause. "What's wrong?"

      "I meant go home. I thought-"

      "Why would I want to go home?" She pulls away, her face twisted. Anxiety fills all of the empty places that the exhaustion ate away. 

      "Are you fucking serious right now?"  

      "And we're back to normal, of course." She rolls her eyes and sighs loudly, shaking her head. "I keep telling you, if you want to go home, then go. I don't need a fucking bodyguard." He puts his hands behind his head and begins to pace, sighing intermittently. 

      "I can't keep doing this, Dragonfly. I can't keep up. I'm out of pretty much everything-"

      "Then _go-_ "

      "You begged me to come with you!"

      "And now I'm un-begging you! If you're just going to complain and nag me all the time just like my fucking sister-"

      "I'm not going to leave you to wander around with a bunch of selfish assholes, getting fucked up all the time-"

      "I don't need a fucking babysitter-"

      "It's not what Aradia would have done!" Dragonfly clamps her mouth shut. In a twisted way, she had almost felt some kind of satisfaction that The Bee Guy was fighting to protect her so hard. But, of course, it's not really about her. It never is.

      "You know, I'm just about fucking _sick_ of Aradia. I'm sick of thinking about her, I'm sick of people talking about her all the fucking time. I'm fucking over it. And you know what? It's always been that way. It's _always_ been all about Aradia, the center of the fucking universe, you and her as a team, and me as the third wheel side chick who gives great blow jobs. Now that she's gone I can finally separate myself from her and just be _me,_ without the judgement and expectations. You know what? I'm _glad_ she's dead." The words tumble out of her mouth, and a shock of surprise jolts her. She presses her lips together, and turns to stalk away.

      "Where are you going? Dragonfly, come back, please. I know you didn't mean it!" The Bee Guy strides next to her, begging her not to leave, reminding her that she's safer with him. She can't bring herself to open her mouth again, to even acknowledge him. When he tries to physically stop her, she wrenches herself away from his hands and points her cane at him threateningly, but still doesn't say a word. She starts to walk again, and this time, he doesn't follow.

 

      After the last show in New York tomorrow night, there are only two more on the east coast before they take off for the other side of the country, but Karkat isn't sure he can make it to the end of _this_ side. It's not even a parking lot this time, and in fact, he's found that quite a few of them aren't. They've been able to get to the lots early, before the crowds, and late enough that everyone has left except the vendors. But city traffic be damned, they've arrived late this time around, and the parking garage is already brimming with life.

      Karkat holds his breath as he eases through the crowd, occasionally lightly beeping his horn to alert people that he's there, as The Bee Guy yells irritable instructions at him over the phone. A guy in a bright orange vest waves people out of the way, though he's mostly ignored. "Dave, come on, I don't want to do this, can't we just park here? It's out of the way enough. This asshole obviously doesn't give a fuck." The perpetually drunk shirtless guy - who it turns out is loosely related to The Bee Guy in some way no one really cares about - stands with his back to them in the middle of the aisle, unmoving, appearing to talk to himself. Anxiously, Karkat stops the car just behind him.

      "Nah, man, people would wreck your shit _up."_ Dave sticks his head and half his body out of his window and yells, "Yo, Mituna! Move your fat ass out of the way, unless you wanna get run over!" Mituna whirls around, stumbling as he focuses on Dave's face, then he throws his hands in the air, exclaiming his name excitedly. "Oh, Jesus Christ..." Dave quickly rolls the window up as Mituna comes around to chatter excitedly at the glass.

      "When you get to the stand with a bunch of tie dyes hanging off it, make a right." The Bee Guy's voice is hard to hear through the loud ambiance of the garage. "Rose is set up on the opposite side, I'm down that aisle. It's like, F or something. I'm a few spots down from her, across from those freaks in the RV that have been stalking us. Think you can manage it?" Dave points to the corner of the aisle, where tie dyed tapestries float along the hot breeze. 

      "Oh, sure, of course you had to park right in the goddamn center of it all. Can you help me here? I really don't think I can do this." Karkat leans forward with white knuckles on the steering wheel. 

      "You're doing great, dude, look at you. All like a fuckin' professional, you look like you've done it a hundred times." Karkat glares at him harshly, and Dave flashes him an encouraging thumbs up in return. Mituna stumbles around the front of the car, and Karkat jerks it to a stop again, hurriedly rolling his own window up as he tries to attack him with his verbal spewing. In his distraction, the car lightly bumps against the leg of an easy up, which scrapes against the concrete with a sharp whine that echoes. Dave jolts forward as Karkat slams on the brakes and shoves the car into park, waving his hands in the air around him. "I can't do this, I can't do this. I can't..." He crosses his arms across his chest, gripping his shoulders, breathing quickly.

      "Woah, okay, okay, it's alright. Just breathe. Switch with me." Dave pops the door open, carelessly bumping it into people who swear at him as they pass by. Karkat stares out the window in anxiety at the table a few inches from his door. Instead, he climbs over the middle console and into the passenger seat. Dave, being slimmer and less afraid to scratch the paint or shove the plastic table out of place, slides into the driver's seat. He gently guides them back and away from the tent, calling out an apology. The owner of the stand merely looks on in boredom. He keeps his foot on the brakes to ease through as Karkat rummages through the glove department. He fills a glass pipe with the roaches of a handful of joints, and lights it up. As smoke fills the car, he sucks on the pipe like it's an inhaler and he's an asthmatic runner. The Bee Guy stands from his cooler in the center of the parking spot they had saved for him, waving away someone yelling at him from their car to move. He immediately descends on them, tapping the window until Dave rolls it down.

      "Have you seen Dragonfly? I haven't seen her since Saratoga, she just took off with that pirate chick." He adjusts his glasses nervously, first from the bridge and then at his ears. He looks a combination of pissed and worried. 

      "Sorry, man, haven't seen her." They look to Karkat, who stares into his hands with his mouth pulled into a tight frown.

      "What's wrong with him?" Dave hesitates before putting a gentle hand on Karkat's back.

      "You alright?" 

      "I don't think I can do this." Karkat whispers, then brings the pipe to his lips again.

      "That's okay, I'm a pro at car surfing through crowds, I'll be the parking lot guy-"

      "Not just that, I mean... I don't think I can keep going on tour." He looks at Dave in shame.

      "Oh. Why?" The Bee Guy grumbles, rolling his eyes. He has too much of his own drama to be interested in the telenovela of these two morons. He easily slots himself into the crowd with his cooler trailing behind him. Without having to say a single word, people approach him with money and eager palms.

      Karkat straightens up with a despondent sigh, and Dave removes his hand. "The car surfing, staying in stranger's houses, not knowing what's going to happen next. All I can think about is what we'll do if we run out of money, if we're robbed, if the car breaks down. What are we going to do for lunch? What are the rules for this person's house that we're staying at with a bunch of other strangers? Where can I hide my stuff so it doesn't get stolen? What's this guy trying to manipulate me into?" He sighs again, shaking his head. "I honestly don't know how you do it. I get why you're so paranoid all the time now. I just really wanted to come because you can only learn so much in a classroom or by thinking about it hard enough but it's too much. It's just too much. I was hoping that if I forced myself into these unknown situations, I'd be forced to take it in stride and maybe _wouldn't_ worry about it so much. But I- I just- Fuck." He bangs his fist on the dashboard. "How fucking pitiful is that? Can't just fucking chill out and have a good time. God, I'm so pathetic. I just wanted to have fun for once in my sorry life, and I can't. I just can't. I'm sorry, but I can't."

      Dave bites his lip awkwardly, unsure of what to say. "But... you're already doing it."

      "I almost took out someone's stand, and then nearly had a panic attack because of it. That's probably their entire living. I could have killed somebody! Or severely hurt them at the least."

      "Karkat, you were going less than one mile per hour. I watched a toddler waddle right by my window, lil Junior couldn't even tell we were moving. And you barely even touched the damn thing. No one was mad at you, no one was hurt, nothing happened."

      "Something _could_ have happened."

      "But nothing did."

      "But it could have!"

      "But it didn't! Karkat, you made one mistake. That doesn't mean you have to call it quits and go back to your normal, comfortable, predictable life. It's like you said; this is the only place you can learn how to drive through a crowd, communicate with some random drunk dude to help you through. You're already accomplishing what you set out to, you've just gotta figure out how to _deal_ with it. You can't do that without being _in_ it. And now you have an idea of what to expect next time you drive through a crowd-"

_"Next time?"_ Karkat looks at him in horror.

      "Okay, or not. I can do it, no biggie. I have no problem takin' someone out. Bitch probably deserved it. Round here? Please, ain't nobody innocent or pure. Lil Junior has probably gotten into his parents' special chocolates in the fridge then drew all kindsa weird shit on the walls. That actually happened to me, you know. I was like six years old and drank from a random bottle of water I found, and it was laced with a lot of shit. Probably one of the most terrifying things that has ever happened to me." They sit in silence for a few moments. Dave holds his hand out, and Karkat passes him the pipe and lighter.

      "I'm just not like you guys. I can't do this."

      “Man, you can _do_ it. You've _been_ doing it, for weeks now. It’s just a matter of like, you know, emotional control or whatever.” The wrinkles in Karkat's forehead smooth out slightly as understanding finds him. 

      “Oh, right. Control. I get that. I guess, maybe this is the most challenging place to learn how to get a better hold of myself-" Dave hurriedly coughs out his toke.

      “Don’t you _dare_ twist my words like that, dude, that’s fucked up." The harshness in his voice startles them both, but he launches forward passionately. "For you that means more like, _not_ controlling your emotions. That’s when you get riled up the worst. Something happens and then you can’t help but get upset and then you get upset about being upset and it exacerbates the actual problem and the cycle just keeps going. You're too worried about what you should and shouldn't feel. You need to like... just let yourself have emotions without thinking about it so hard. Acknowledge that you’re upset, and... move on. Let it happen, feel it, get it out. Then make room for something else. Let yourself feel something without beating yourself up and judging yourself for it, you know? That only makes it worse.” Karkat side eyes him. 

      “Since when did you become a beacon of wisdom and emotional control?” Dave is quiet, staring out the windshield with a thoughtful expression. He can feel his mouth gluing itself closed at the mention of why he is the way he is. It's not the first time he's talked to Karkat about his dad, but never in such detail. It's still hard to talk about, like the words refuse to leave his tongue. With the light high easing into his muscles, it's a little easier.

      “Growing up, you know, when I was a kid, um... my dad would beat the shit out of me. For a lot of things, but also if I cried or showed too much emotion. He said he was doing it for my own good, that the world will eat a man alive if he reveals too much. So, yeah, I taught myself how to not show what I was feeling, and for me, that was by... not feeling. As best I could, anyways. I guess. I don't know, I was really young, I don't remember my thought process behind it too well, honestly. But, any time I do start to feel something, I automatically shut it down. It's easy to fake emotions, you know, pretend to be cheerful when meeting someone lookin' to score, pretend to be chill when I want to throw myself off a fucking bridge. But recently I realized how much that’s holding me back, so I’ve been trying to do the same thing myself. Acknowledge that it’s there, feel it. Even express it, maybe. Well, maybe. With the right person." He scratches the back of his head at that confession. He's still got a ways to go himself. "But the most important part, I think, is to move on. It's a balance of like, not _not_ feeling it, and not letting it consume you. It's hard, but it's like fuckin' - what's that guy's name? Was it Plato? I don't know, something about the Golden Mean. Sometimes you gotta go from one end of the extreme to the other to get a feel for the middle ground, you know?” Karkat looks at him with lifted eyebrows, surprised at the seemingly random expression of emotion, the casual way he expresses childhood trauma. He turns towards him.

      “And what made you realize you needed to change?” Dave smiles ever so slightly and glances over at him. 

      “You. You're insanely introspective, I guess it just rubbed off on me. And how you're always challenging yourself. I mean you're doing all this, knowing it was going to be really hard for you, but here you are. Panic attack or not, that's pretty dope. So I just thought about the things that I could maybe work on, and... yeah." 

      “You tend to shut down when you feel something too much, I've noticed. Except when you're angry, you seem to have no problem expressing that. Why is that?” Dave scratches the back of his head again, fidgeting as he exercises his weak introspection skills.

      “Well, anger was always okay with dad, I guess. It’s manly and shit. I guess. I don’t know. He always encouraged me to get angry. I don't know. I don't get it, any of it. Him. Why he... you know, did all that shit to me. I mean, to a little fuckin' kid that can barely talk. I can't understand it. He hit me across the face with a fucking - you know what, forget it. This ain't about me, sorry. I shouldn't have said any of that, sorry-" The pang of regret makes Dave look away, shaking his head.

      "It's okay, I'm glad you told me. You literally _never_ have to apologize for being open with me, you know. I don't blame you for being confused about it, I don't understand it either. I'm sorry that happened to you." He reaches out, places a hand on Dave's arm, and squeezes it once before retracting. Dave glances over at him with a sad smile, blinking slowly. He sighs heavily and shakes his head with a barely audible scoff as if in disbelief. 

      "So, anyways... what can I do to make this experience more enjoyable for you? Cause I'd _really_ like you to stay, but not if you're going to be miserable." Karkat thinks for a moment.

      "I think it's pretty much up to me to figure out how to deal with my own emotions and not having control over everything and being generally useless. Step one is not immediately reacting to things so dramatically." Karkat glares inwards.

      "Man, don't sweat it. It takes a certain kind of person to be a part of this. Most people _can't_ handle it, that's why it's a dying scene. But you trust me, right?" Karkat nods. "And you trust The Bee Guy and Dragonfly?"

      "Well, I trust The Bee Guy. Dragonfly's judgement and priorities are off but I get what you're saying."

      "We'll take care of you, bro. Don't even worry. _Cause every little thing-"_ He slings an arm around Karkat's seat and presses his face in close, sending the ashes from the pipe wafting to the floorboards. _"Is gonna be alright!"_ Karkat squeals and shoves at his face.

      "Okay, I get it! Alright, I'll just follow you losers around like Little fucking Junior and try not to have a panic attack."

      "And even if you do, you got six shoulders to cry on. You know what, make it eight. I'm sure Egbert ain't afraid of a little snot." Karkat nods and takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly and turning to look Dave in the eyes. The romantic moment swells with growing trust, perfumed with the sweet aroma of falling in love - and is interrupted by Mituna slamming his hands against the windshield and licking it. Dave chuckles and shoves him away as he opens the door, climbing out into the noisy life of Lot.

      Karkat hunches over his table, flipping several sandwiches in a row, then moving on to butter more bread. Beside him, Dave cheerfully jabbers on with the customers as he takes their money and hands them their food. When Karkat accidentally burns a sandwich and his eye starts to twitch, Dave wordlessly takes the spatula from him, grinning as he hands over the fanny pack. It's an easy, familiar routine by now. With the first customer of the evening always brings a lightning bolt of anxiety, shooting through his veins like acid. But once he gets into the rhythm - or hears Dave's laugh, catches him staring at him with his tilted smile - there's too much to focus on to think about anything except what he's doing. It's almost meditative, in a way, and Karkat feels a little more confident after every new stack of cash he earns. 

      To Dave's great displeasure, one of the twins skips over to them, waving free tickets in their faces. He's vehement at first about denying them, whispering in Karkat's ear that it means they'll owe him something in return. Eerily, despite their late arrival, Marvus still sits in his lawn chair with the guitar in his lap, smiling at them from the adjacent row of parking spots. The kid goes back without the tickets, but with a wad of cash and the instructions, "Tell your old man we said thanks, and that we're even." And she runs off.

      Just before the show, they throw a tarp over the stand, and The Bee Guy assures them again that he'll keep a close eye on it. All he's going to do is sit around and mope, anyways. Like usual. As they wait for Dirk and whatever dumbasses he's bringing along with him, they sell a few more sodas, and someone grabs a handful of ice to put under their hat so that it drips onto their face and neck. They wait, watching Mituna stumble by, jeering happily at the custies. Same old, same old, Karkat thinks, a blunt hanging from his mouth. He's not sure where Dave's getting his pot from, but it's a hell of a lot better than whatever he smoked in high school. Maybe it's really not so bad, being a lot rat, once you get used to it. Maybe. Dave tries and fails to sell some microdots. Again. He clenches his teeth together and watches the guy he's been selling to for years saunter over to the RV. 

      "So this is really what we're doing? Again? If I had known beforehand that ninety percent of my time was going to be wasted on waiting for other people to get their shit together I would have reconsidered before quitting my job to run away with you. You dick faces have no sense of urgency!" Karkat squints in the setting sun, casting everything in a sickly warm light. Dave relaxes a bit as he turns his attention to him.

      "Why is it so urgent, exactly? Just calm your tits, Karkat, it's not the end of the world if we miss a few songs." As is customary, he throws his arm around Karkat's shoulders, and begins to guide them towards the arena. "Let's just go, man, forget him." 

      As they pass by the RV, Karkat feels Dave stiffen against his side. He's still convinced they're planning something, though Karkat hasn't seen them do anything except poorly play the guitar and invite them over for a joint every now and then. Before he can wrap an arm around Dave's waist to reassure him, Marvus calls out to them. They halt. Dave doesn't even try to use his fake smile, just stares at him blankly.

      "Hey brother, come on over." Marvus pulls a rusty beach chair closer to him and pats the back, grinning charmingly. 

      "We're headed into the show," Dave replies curtly, releasing Karkat to shove his hands in his pockets.

      "Did you guys get tickets?" Karkat asks, ignoring Dave's glare. They're nice guys as far as he can tell, there's no sense in being rude just because Dave has issues. Marvus flicks his eyes to Karkat, his grin twisting wickedly. 

      "Yeah, bro, we're headin' that way in a few. The kiddies are pumped, ain't ya?" He roughly hooks his arm around a scampering twin and pulls them to his side, giving them a noogie. Before Karkat gets the chance to continue the polite chit-chat, impulsivity sparks in Dave's head. He stalks close to Marvus, staring down the bridge of his nose at him.

      "How's your business been? Sold anything today?" 

      "Sure thing, just sold a fresh batch. Seems like the market's been growin' lately, wonder why." Dave's eyes narrow.

      "Funny. I haven't sold a thing."

      "'Magine that." Anger boils in his veins, and his fists clench at his side. 

      "I ain't playin' these games with you, man, cut the bullshit. Rumors have been goin' around that our shit is laced, giving people rashes and hives. Fluffs and silvers have been playin' nice with each other since the fuckin' sixties, we can both sell plenty of product without fucking each other over." Marvus slouches in his chair, casually running a hand down the curved side of his instrument. Kurloz and Bull burst out of the camper, laughing and playfully shoving each other around. Sensing the tension, Kurloz leans against the back of Marvus' chair, still chukling. The two men, both taller and denser than Dave and Karkat combined, stare at them with hard eyes and dripping grins. 

      "You hear that? Dave thinks we been gossipin' about his stuff. I ain't told nobody nothin', and we all know you ain't, Kurloz. How bout you, Bull?" Bull nervously shuffles his feet, his eyes flitting around like the Joker's, though more out of anxiety than shiftiness. He stutters over his words, seemingly unwilling to answer. "Maybe we should ask the Joker what he thinks about that." Marvus jerks his chin up, and the boys turn around to see a lanky figure stalking towards them from the end of the aisle.


	14. Goin' Down The Road Feelin' Bad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robert Hunter died recently. RIP to a legendary lyricist, who helped influence and inspire a beautiful, chaotic subculture. His words will carry on ✌️

_[Goin' down the road feelin' bad](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KSRs2DRkYgM) _

_Goin' down the road feelin' bad_

_Goin' down the road feelin' bad_

_I don't want to be treated this a-way_

_Goin' where the climate suits my clothes_

_Goin' where the climate suits my clothes_

_Goin' where the climate suits my clothes_

_I don't want to be treated this a-way_

_Goin' down the road feelin' bad_

_Goin' down the road feelin' bad_

_Goin' down the road feelin' bad_

_I don't want to be treated this a-way_

_Goin' where the water tastes like wine_

_Goin' where the water tastes like wine_

_Goin' where the water tastes like wine_

_I don't want to be treated this a-way_

_Goin' down the road feelin' bad_

_Goin' down the road feelin' bad_

_Goin' down the road feelin' bad_

_I don't want to be treated this a-way_

_Goin' where the chilly winds don't blow_

_Goin' where the chilly winds don't blow_

_Goin' where the chilly winds don't blow_

_I don't want to be treated this a-way_

 

New York City, NY 

 

      The Joker ambles up to them, unconcerned with life and unencumbered. Still pocked with cystic acne and eyes hanging so low it's a miracle he can see at all, though his cheek is green with a healing bruise. Dave straightens at the sight, crossing his arms and lifting his head. Karkat mimics him, if only to keep from cowering. He suddenly wishes he hadn't gotten high just before this. 

      "I heard you've been lyin' about my L," Dave immediately accuses. Even behind his ugly pair of sunglasses, fury barely contained. It's then that Karkat realizes he's tripping; he's always more open, more vulnerable and honest and confrontational. Then again, when isn't he tripping these days? In other words - this is very bad. Karkat feels it in his stomach, a sticky ball of dread and looming violence. 

      "Come on, dude, let's just go into the show-" He smacks Dave's arm in a manly way, glaring at the others as he starts to turn away. 

      "Nah, brotha, we ain't gotta do nothin' like that. Our shit's just that good. If your stuff's givin' people hives, sounds like a you problem," The Joker replies casually. Dave takes a step closer, the top of his head even with the Joker's chin, and yet he still manages to stare down at him. 

      "No one said anything about hives." The Joker chuckles lowly, sinking into the beach chair beside Marvus.

      "Heard it through the grapevine, as they say. Ain't that right, Bull?" All eyes turn to the young teen for a second time, and he shrinks into his oversized tie dye t-shirt. Karkat watches the Joker's grin widen at the kid's discomfort, and he feels a wave of repulsion roll through his limbs. Barely out of puberty, Bull's voice cracks as he stutters through a reply. To end both his and the kid's misery, Karkat yanks on Dave's shirt again, urging him to leave it be. His face smooths out almost imperceptibly as his eyes fall on Karkat, but the Joker eggs him on, "Maybe it's just 'bout time for y'all to call it quits. We could merge our businesses, I'll pay ya more than your janky ass brother does." And Dave is back to clenching every muscle in his body in preparation of a fight.

      "What's this about a janky ass brother I hear?" They turn to see Dirk himself approaching. His hair is tousled, his clothes damp with sweat; he's likely just recently taken his costume off. Trailing behind him is a man with khaki shorts revealing his muscled thighs, and an unbuttoned shirt barely containing his jungle of chest hair. He grins and offers Dave a thin paper booklet stapled together, seemingly oblivious to the friction between the surrounding men.

      "Want this month's addition of The Daily Dead? We've got more beds open at the compound, ol' pal, I know how rough you've got it out there on the streets!" Dave glares at him in disgust, and he retracts the paper, nonplussed. "Anyone else?" The Joker holds out a hand, and then passes the magazine to Bull. The two start to talk, Marvus turns around to comment on the twins, and Karkat reaches out for Dave's wrist. Everyone's here, everyone else is distracted, perfect time for an escape. But Dave takes a step back, pointing at the Joker dramatically.

      Like a child accusing another schoolmate of stealing his juice box, Dave says, "He just fucking _admitted_ to telling people a bunch of bullshit about our shit!" At the frantic allegation, everyone bursts into a flurry of insults and defenses. Marvus and the Joker both leap to their feet, and all of them suddenly have their noses in each other's faces. With the sweat rolling down their temples, the close proximity and heavy breathing, it's almost erotic. Instinctively, Karkat throws a hand across Bull's chest and pushes him away from the riled up group of drug dealers, and glances around for the twins. They're both drawing on the concrete with Meulin, all three of them blind to the scuffle, and safe. Dirk puts a light hand on Dave's chest to hold him back, while calmly pacifying the clowns. 

      Unphased, Bull watches on with his mouth twisted in some indecipherable emotion. Maybe anxiety, just as likely amusement. Karkat remembers his older brother, who was a senior by time everyone had reached the ninth grade. He sold leaves and stems to the baby future-potheads in the bathrooms - but never to his little brother, he made sure everyone knew that - then disappeared as soon as he graduated. If he graduated at all. Bull is still nearly ten years younger than Karkat and his friends, small and stringy, with a nervous stutter and a fidgeting habit that rivals Dave's. "Are you okay?" Karkat asks, and Bull barely glances at him.

      "Yes? They are over there. And we're over here. So I think we're okay. If they get in a fight, if that's what you mean?"

      "No. I mean, are you okay hanging around with them? They're not forcing you to do anything, are they?" Bull's face contorts in confusion, and he scratches at the back of his head. A patch of hair missing just above his ear, revealing a jagged scar.

      "Uh, what do you... mean?" Karkat glances at the older men, now looking more exasperated by Dirk's lecturing than prepared to rip each other's throats out. 

      "Like telling people things that aren't true." He looks at him pointedly, and under the nonjudgmental, borderline concerned gaze, Bull squirms. "I won't tell them, I don't really give a shit. It's all petty high school drama but with a bunch of rash morons with itchy fists instead of bratty teens desperately trying to feel alive in an empty world. I just want to make sure you're okay. Safe, you know?" The group all looks around at each other a final time, then simultaneously nod and turn away. Dave, arms still crossed and now hunched in a pout, stands in a small circle with Dirk and the half-naked guy. 

      "Why?" Bull finally meets Karkat's gaze. His eyes are round with innocence, but heavy with burden. Karkat doesn't know hardly anything about him and his family, except that he's always been thin and grungy. Sort of like a naive, cautious Dave. He puts a hand on the kid's back.

      "If you ever need anything, somewhere to stay, food, whatever, you can come to me. Or Dave, or Dirk, or Bee. You know who I'm talking about, right?" He nods. "Look, I know you're not going to believe me because the Joker's probably been brainwashing you into thinking we're the bad guys, but I promise you we're not. And neither are you. So if things get to be too much, if they try to make you do something you don't want to, of you're ever in an uncomfortable situation, if you're hungry or just want a break from the intensity of... all this. We'll help you out, okay?" He looks even more confused now, flicking his gaze around nervously. Before either of them can say anything more, Dave throws his arm around Karkat's neck and starts to drag him away. Looking over his shoulder, he sees the kid staring down at his shoes with a frown. 

      As they tread through the crowd, Dirk presses his hand into the small of the guy's back, and in return, the guy claps a meaty hand onto the back of Dirk's neck. He repeatedly refers to Dirk as Bear, always with a macho wink and a twinkle in his eye. It's an ironic nickname, given the fact that Dirk is obviously a twink, but the double entendre of the Dancin' Bear costume suits him. "So you weren't going to tell me that Dirk's your brother?" Karkat asks. Not that he didn't already have his suspicions; they have the same knobby, bird-like nose, thick eyebrows and thin lips that move too much without actually saying anything.

      "Yeah, dear old dad likes the hippie chicks. Somethin' about hairy pussy that really gets him going, I guess. Rose's mom was never big into tour, but she went to a lot of shows, and she was good at socializing. More stable than our sorry excuse of a father - which really ain't sayin' much - so she kept Rose. Dirk and I have the same mom, actually, whoever the fuck _she_ is. We grew up together, before we moved from Houston to the flaccid penis of the country, but he decided to stay behind. He already had his own apartment, connections and all that. He's always said he 'knew I could handle it.'" His voice turns low and sour on the last sentence.

      "Why didn't you stay with him instead?" 

      "I was like five, I don't even remember it. Didn't have much of a choice. Course, Dirk was barely out of fuckin' middle school, but he had already been sellin' and makin' shit. He was always good at it. Family trade, I guess." They break out of the car garage and dart across the busy street to the stadium. The four of them stand in the long line of people waiting to get their tickets checked. 

      "So who's your new friend, kiddo? Never seen his face around here! I'm Jake English, pleasure is all mine." Dirk's friend sticks out his hairy-knuckled hand and nearly rips Karkat's arm off with his enthusiastic pumping. He immediately hands him a pamphlet. "Ever heard of The Daily Dead? We're a company that-"

      "Dude, shut up your stupid fucking cult. I'm not gonna let you kidnap poor Karkat and leave him stranded in the desert."

      "Dave, come on," Dirk says, like an exasperated parent, shaking his head in disappointment.

      "Jeepers, Dave, I've never understood your problem with our operation. We only aim to-" Jake tries to argue, but Dave runs over his words.

      "I super don't want to hear it right now. You're basically a fucking pedophile, you know that? You prey on kids that ran away from their shitty home life to go on tour, and you make fake promises-"

      "Dave, enough-" Dirk holds his hand out, and Dave knocks it away.

      "No! Fuck you, Dirk. You know it's fucked up, but you're a sucker for a pair of hairy balls that'll slap your ass and call you daddy. I know you know it's wrong. So stop trying to pull me out of fights - I could have taken the Joker on, and stopped all these bullshit rumors but you just had to step in and play fuckin' hero. Stop giving me advice I never asked for, stop treating me like a fucking kid. You're not special, you're just a dickhead. So fuck you." Dave knows he's almost yelling, he knows that the hazy sweatshop where they drop off kids with no family - where they realize that they'll be fed and housed as long as they labor over t-shirts - and refuse to drive them back home could very well be an urban legend. He knows it's not what he's really angry about, but he doesn't know where else to aim it. 

      He abruptly turns away, weaving through the various lines until he's on the opposite end of the entrance. Karkat frantically watches Dave disappear, considering if he should go after him or not. Then he remembers the one time Dave mentioned that it's 'impossible to be mad around you,' and follows. Silently, he stands beside Dave as he shuffles his feet and mutters to himself, staring angrily at the back of a stranger's head. He occasionally blurts out a frustrated, fragmented sentence, but mostly just shakes his head and moves his lips soundlessly. As they wait, Karkat flips through the magazine. It seems to be exactly what Jake referred to it as; an innocent little newspaper. There are various pictures of concerts and the band, a schedule of the summer's venues and summaries of the ones past. The only odd thing that sticks out is various bible quotes, carefully formatted and hidden among song lyrics. Then he digs into the actual articles. The words are angry and spiteful, more about inciting God's wrath than the actual Grateful Dead. They claim that the only thing keeping the end of the world at bay is the unifying music of the Dead, and that all proceeds from their business selling merch goes to some unnamed charity. It's a mess of brightly colored pictures and jumbled messages. The only way he'd be able to decipher any real meaning is by asking Jake about it, which he feels would lead to a whole sermon. Dave snatches the magazine and throws it over his shoulder, letting it be trampled by the stampede along with all of the sad, deflated balloons and cigarette butts.

      Amidst his private ramblings, he says sharply, "He just fucking  _left,_ and then he thinks he can make up for it by helping me out now? Acting like he knows exactly what the Joker's up to, how to handle it. I'll bet you anything he's just saying that to make it look like he has control over it but he doesn't. He even fucking  _apologized_ to that bitch, he fucking  _apologized,_ Karkat. And then had the gall to  _scold_ me. He's just rolling over and sucking the Joker's dick to stay out of a fight." Dirk says the Joker's dangerous, that he's killed people before, but it's not like Dirk doesn't have a similar record. Dave thinks, anyways. He doesn't know anything specifically, but he's seen his brother wield a knife, the steely determination in his eyes. Dirk's careful enough that he's never even been to jail, meanwhile the Joker's served multiple sentences in prison because he's a narcissist who thinks he's untouchable. Thinks he can do anything he wants in broad daylight with no consequence. Maybe that's exactly what makes him so dangerous. In any case, Dirk owns half the lot rats, has connections all over the country even beyond the sphere of roadies; he's got more influence than the Joker could even imagine. It doesn't make sense. "You truly just can't trust fucking anybody, can you?"

      "You can trust me," Karkat replies without thinking. Dave looks at him, and as Karkat looks back, his features begin to soften. He doesn't respond, but his shoulders relax. By time they make it into the lobby, his face is back to its blitzed-out grin it always defaults to when he's spun. Without Karkat there, he'd likely have done something impulsive and ended up riding with his brother, blood dripping down his chin. With every small glance at Karkat's familiar face his anger ebbs away. The mere sound of his voice sends a wave of calm through him. For once, he doesn't fight it.

      They sit in the nosebleed section, where the stage is just a small speck of light and color. Laser pointers dart around, drowned out by the overwhelming stage lights, and some of the old schoolers still swing a lighter above their heads. A fat joint is passed down the line, dozens of slimy mouths and tongues briefly touching it before handing it off to the next person. 

      They've been to enough shows by now that Karkat's more comfortable swaying, bobbing his head, even sometimes putting his hands in the air when the feeling compels him. He's lazy about it, letting his eyes wander over the scenery and getting lost in his head. But when Shakedown Street plays, his eyes widen, and he punches Dave's shoulder in excitement. It's the only song he can sing along to, and he sings it as loud as he can, banging his head with the resonating hums of the bass. He nails each and every 'whoo,' leaping into the air and accidentally knocking the beer out of someone's hands. It spills onto his arm, but he hardly notices.

      "Get it, dude. Show us what you got!" Dave cups his hands around his mouth and hollers, then gets back to shimmying when the lyrics eventually kick in. All - most - thoughts of the Joker and his brother have disappeared among the hazy cloud of smoke that lingers above them, lost in the deafening thrum of music and screams. It's only him, the beat of the drums, and  _Karkat._

      During the intermission, Karkat watches his face closely as he wipes down his arm for him. It reminds him of the time Dave had come into the restaurant, tired and bloody, and refused to let Karkat help wash him off. When he's finished, he holds Karkat's hand between both of his own, grinning and chattering away. Someone mutters a sharp _faggot_ at them, but Dave doesnt notice, and Karkat doesn't react. They stand outside the bathroom in the busy hallway, still holding hands. Karkat watches him quietly, examining the way Dave's eyebrows bounce as he enthuses about the music, his fingers smoothing over Karkat's knuckles as if they have a mind of their own. During a rare lapse in his stream of consciousness, he looks at Karkat with bright eyes, biting his lip in sheer euphoria. Somewhere along the way, he lost his glasses again. That makes Karkat laugh, and Dave laughs along with him.

      He wants to ask why, to talk to this person that only emerges when he's tripping. The one that smiles just because he's _happy,_ because he's glad to be where he is. The one that constantly keeps a hand somewhere on Karkat, whether to spin him in circles as they're dancing, shuffle his hair as he passes, to just... hold it there on his arm as he talks. Karkat would never say so, but Dave just may be the most touch-starved person he's ever met. The palms of his hands ache to cradle Dave's face. Even the expression he makes when he laughs, head tilted up, eyes crinkled closed, his mouth split wide and taking up his features - it makes his chest swell in a way he's never felt before. 

      But he's afraid of scaring this one away, of bringing out the other Dave. The one that hardly looks him in the eye, that pulls his hand away while reaching out for Karkat's. His hands cupping his own feels nice, so Karkat simply nods along and calls him an assface as he distractedly pats his body in search of his glasses.

 

      There _is_ a hotel room. It's a Motel 6, smoking room, in the suburbs of Brooklyn with a gas station on one side and a Denny's on the other. Not quite the Hilton in the heart of the city, but at least Raccoon got the room number right. There are only two beds, which wouldn't have been a problem for Dragonfly or Vriska - maybe even a good excuse for a little discreet, accidental touching - except for the fact that they were not the only guests. 

      Many of the dozen or so people crammed into the small room are strangers to even Rat and Raccoon, friends of friends. They sit on the beds passing joints, snort lines off the desk, and under the sink counter they pass a pipe with DMT sandwiched between a couple buds. Vriska stands in front of the bathroom, banging on the door for someone to come out. A guy stumbles out, violently running a finger under his nose, and they see another guy limp on the toilet, his jaw hanging open, and the crack pipe just about to slip out of his hands. Dragonfly, exhausted from her come down, barely aware of her own name, settles herself between the wall and the bed. Her eyes close, and she's blissfully allowed the hazy half-sleep of a hard-hitting comedown. She doesn't have to think about her thoughts, feel her body - just listen to the broken bits of conversation, the sneezes and exhales and laughter. They talk about the 27 club, all of the celebrities that have died at the age of 27. She's suddenly positive that she'll die at 27, only a handful of years away. With the realization comes relief.

      Inevitably, she goes back to the same old thoughts. They walk in the ruts carved into her mind, sharply grating over the same old wounds. Aradia, perpetual loneliness, emptiness, confusion, suicide. As always, she lands on the easiest thing to think about - Dave. It's been so long since she thought about him, since she needed the crutch of his imaginary fingers on her skin, his lips softly touching hers. With Aradia gone and The Bee Guy close to leaving her behind, he's her only safe space. Even the pain of rejection is comforting, easier to handle than thoughts of life and death. Something simple to hold onto. She imagines him there beside her, rambling in his lilting, convoluted way, like his mind never has the chance to slow down. 

      Roughly, her eyes are pried open and she blinks away a stinging liquid. There's hot laughter in her face as she squirms away, slamming her head on the wall. "What the fuck?" For a moment of electrifying terror, she thinks it's the Joker, but then Rat's voice rises above the commotion.

      "Ha! Thought you were gonna take a nice little nap, huh? Good luck, you're gonna be up for a while." He cackles again, and everyone joins him, as if it was the world's greatest prank. With some effort, she stands, swearing and rubbing at her eyes. Just as her fingers brush against her cane, it's ripped away from her. Her annoyance deepens to anger.

      "That's not fucking funny, give it back. I am _not_ fucking around, give it _back."_ She reaches out blindly, grasping desperately at the air. They continue to mock her, poke her with her own cane as she circles around the bed, tripping over feet. She yelps and jumps back as the cane slaps painfully on her arm. She flinches at the sound of it swishing through the air, then it lands across her back. "Vriska!" She turns, feeling along the wall to the front door, panic slipping into her veins. What if Vriska joins them? What if they follow her out? What if they keep going, all night, the trauma heightened by her trip? The tickle in her throat throbs, and she realizes that they've dosed her again. It won't be over for a very long time.

      "Mama already left you, baby, sorry bout your bad luck." But as he says so, a hand grips her upper arm tight. 

      "Fuck you. That's all the words you fucking deserve to hear from me - _fuck you."_ Dragonfly's jerked around as Vriska yanks the cane out of Rat's hand, and shoves it into her own. They stalk out of the hotel room, followed by an echo of malicious laughter. The air is stickier outside, and still. "I'll find us a place to stay if you buy dinner." Vriska leads them towards the diner next door, letting her arm linger on Dragonfly's elbow longer than necessary.

      "I don't have any money," she says quietly, and Vriska groans dramatically.

      "Well, neither do I! Call your boyfriend or whatever and see if we can stay with him. Or at least get some grub, I'm _starving."_ Dragonfly pulls out her phone and feigns a text to The Bee Guy. They sit on the curb, passing their last cigarette as they wait for the text back. 

      Cars putter by, huffing exhaust in their faces, people and voices and lights dance around them. It's very hard for Dragonfly to have a bad trip. Usually, it makes her feel better when she's depressed, relaxed when she's stressed, calm when she's angry. She's chewed a ten strip before and gotten herself lost in San Francisco, wandering into traffic and having a great time. But as this new dose settles into her exhausted mind and body, she thinks she just might go crazy. The constant stream of reality without a single break, without a second to catch her breath. She thinks that she'd rather be dead than have to stay awake for another moment, and that's a dangerous thought to have. 

      Her thoughts are interrupted by Vriska's abrasive voice exploding beside her. "Yo, Fiona, how's it goin', babe?" Dragonfly listens without actually hearing anything, imagining that her consciousness is riding on the sound waves of Vriska's voice, willing herself to disappear. She doesn't notice it's silent until Vriska starts talking again, startling her. She tries to ask what she said, when there's a new voice, and then she stops trying. 

      Numbly, she follows along as they climb into a car that smells like burned hair. Her nose wrinkles; she's never liked the smell of crack. "It's really too bad you can't see this bitch, Dragonfly, she's _massive._ That's why we call her Fiona, cause she looks like an ogre. And this hair, you should really look at this hair, it's fucking amazing, Fiona, for real." Dragonfly stretches out on the backseat, temporarily soothed by the rocking. The house is blissfully quiet, too, except for a movie playing softly in the living room. The two continue to talk quietly as they all gather around the couch, sharing a fancy hookah setup. As Dragonfly sinks into her cushion, her arm brushes against someone beside her. She pulls her arm back, resting it on her lap, and leans her head back, letting her thoughts drift as they please. She chokes back her thoughts, empties her brain as much as possible. Enters that space in her mind where she can cease to exist until she's forced out again.

      "And this knucklehead, didn't think I'd be seeing him again. Thought your business down south was doing so good, you weren't gonna risk losing it," Fiona says. The person beside Dragonfly stirs, brushing against her as they answer.

      "Nah, sis. Plans have changed. I've got more reason than ever to hop aboard the ol' tour train, yes ma'am. A _much_ better reason." The dark, gravelly voice steals her breath. For a moment, she's paralyzed. It's just a hallucination, she tells herself. One of the girls respond, and a hand lazily flops to the side, touching her thigh. Her breathing picks up pace, and she lifts her head, feeling glued to the couch, unable to respond or run away. A heavy breath blows over her ear as the hand digs into the flesh of her leg. "Come on, I can show you to the bedroom." He picks up her hand as he stands, but she yanks it away.

      "I'm not going anywhere with you. Stay the fuck away from me." She stands, unsure of where to go now, feeling like an animal trapped in the lion's den. 

      "Aw, don't be like that now, baby-"

      "Don't fucking call me that," she seethes, tapping her way out of the living room in desperation. She's slow in the unfamiliar space, and the Joker sets a light hand on her elbow, as if to help her. She wrenches it away. "I said _get the fuck away from me."_ She walks faster, ramming her knee into something. It's her bad knee, and a throb reverberates through her leg. When she fidgets with the lock on the handle, he presses his chest against her back to open it. A shiver of disgust wriggles up her spine. The grass is damp on her bare feet, and a light drizzle sticks to her frizzy hair. She had thought she was going deeper into the house, and she isn't sure how she got turned around, but the fresh air filling her lungs feels like tasting freedom.

      Until she hears his voice again, trailing her as she frantically fumbles around the yard. "Come on, Dragonfly, I know you miss me. What we had was special." Her hand lands on the familiar feeling of sharp peeling paint and pulls away from the bus as if burned. He presses her against the van, his arms on either side of her, trapping her backwards. Again, she can't breathe or move, paralyzed as she feels the ghost of his hands locked around her throat. 

      "Aw, yeah. Me and you have got the same idea. Lots of good times in here, remember those? All those times we _fucked?_ I remember them. I think of them all the time. I think of you, and your sexy little tits." He gropes her chest as he grinds against her. "I told you you wouldn't never get away from me. You missed me, didn't you? I know you liked it." His fingers crawl underneath the hem of her pants hungrily. She's snapped out of her reverie and drops suddenly to her knees, waddling underneath his arm. On the way, she drops her cane, but bumps into another car. It's unlocked. 

      As she tries to shut the door behind her, he catches it. Though he's much stronger than her, he's taken off guard by her desperation, and she slams his fingers in the door. He roars in fury, and his distraction with trying to pull away gives her time to lock herself safely inside. She crawls onto the floor in the back, trying to shove herself underneath the passenger seat to get as far away from him as she can, and covering herself with a large hoodie. Muffled by the window, he continues his low threats, yanking on the door handles. 

      They gradually raise in volume and intensity, until he slaps his palm against the window, throwing his body against the door, rocking the entire car. "Answer me, cunt! I'll break the goddamn window! I'll break your fucking face! Your pussy is mine, fucking _answer me!"_  

      "Get away from me!" She yells weakly, muttering a quiet 'please.' It was her mistake for letting her guard down. For thinking she could maybe relax for a night, for letting herself forget about him. She should never have left Florida. "Please. Please, just leave me alone. Please," she mutters, over and over, wrapping her arms around her head. He continues to yell, insult and threaten, rocking the car and pulling at the handles. 

      "I've been following you, bitch. I _tricked_ you, you like that? _I_ got you here, I can get you anywhere. You see how hard I work for you? I got _all_ my eyes on you, don't fuckin' forget that." Eventually, he leaves, and she thinks maybe God finally heard her prayers. But just as she goes to lift her head, his voice floats back from a distance, gradually getting louder as he stalks back towards her. Then he's on full force again. "And it's your fault, you bitch! You were the one that made me fall for you, I love you, and you broke my heart!" He says this loudly and angrily, but it sounds fake, like he's putting on a show. She wonders who for. "It's your fault you got hooked, I tried to keep you safe, keep all of those untrustworthy motherfuckers away from you. Because no one else cares about you like I do. No one will ever love you like I do." Vulnerability turns everything around her transparent; she's completely naked and exposed, no protection as he pulls at every thread in her soul and yanks. He voices everything she knows to be true, that everyone hates her, that she's a burden to the world, that she's selfish for staying alive. He surprises her by accusing her of abandoning him in his time of need. She was too self-absorbed to see that he was struggling with addiction just as much as she was. This happens a few times over, insulting and begging and confessing his love for her. She shouts back, begging him to leave her alone through her tears. She wishes she could be more assertive, stronger. Force him to leave. But she's weak and pathetic, she's terrified and tripping really fucking hard. 

      As he berates her, his voice breaks. He swears once, kicking the car weakly, and she almost thinks he's crying. "You broke me, Dragonfly. It's all _your fault."_ And he leaves.

      She doesn't let herself believe it. He'll be back, she tells herself. He's going to come back with the car keys, he's going to drag her out. Despite her terror and reluctance to even think about him, sympathy edges into the corners of her emotions. Could it be true, that everything he did was out of love? If she's learned anything in her young life, it's that people love in many different ways. Maybe this is just another one. She begins to hyperventilate, and realizes that she's filling the car with all of her carbon dioxide. She's going to suffocate and die. She's dying. Her chest swells with pain, and she clutches at herself, unable to take a breath, but unwilling to open the door. Sweat trickles down her sides. If this is how she goes, so be it. 

      With the acceptance - and the eagerness - for death, the panic attack subsides. He does not come back. For hours, throughout the entire night, she sits alone in the deafeningly quiet car. Her thoughts march through their ruts like soldiers. She barely moves, stuck in her little ball, shivering. It's almost nice to be back in this head space, comfortable and familiar. It's been too long since she had a breakdown, had an excuse to let go of her sanity and not have to think about her actions. Being good and sober was too hard. It takes too much effort to be happy, it's easier to let herself slide into impulsivity and apathy. Live a life of simple, pure, primal human emotion. People help you more when they feel sorry for you. No future to care about, to worry about ruining. There's nothing left. There's nothing left, except the Joker and his promise to watch her, to love her even when she doesn't want it, even when she doesn't deserve it.

      In the morning, there's a gentle knock on the window that startles her back into her tense ball. "Have you been awake all night?" Vriska asks, and Dragonfly slowly sits up. Though the high has finally worn down, reality is still painted a little differently. Shaky and warping. "Well, come on. She's kicking us out. I got your bag, she's dropping us off at McDonald's so we can get something to eat and find a ride to the next show." 

      "Where's the Joker?" Dragonfly's voice is thick and raspy.

      "Who?" Vriska tugs on the handle again.

      "The - the guy. The Joker."

      "I don't know, he left last night. I actually thought he was with you this whole time." 

      "He's gone? Like, not even in the house?"

      "Yeah, seriously, he's gone, now get out, let's go. Chop chop!" She pulls on the handle impatiently, and Dragonfly flings the door open, knocking her down. "Jesus fuck, what's your problem?" Dragonfly ignores her, partially expecting the Joker to grab her, to have been betrayed by Vriska. It was a setup the whole time, they're all in cahoots, it's all part of his grand plan to get her. She's almost disappointed when he doesn't.

      She stands stiffly, stretching her back out. The sun bakes her already warm skin, birds chirp in the early morning. It's almost like he was never here. No one asks her about him, or why she stayed in the car all night. No one talks about him at all. She almost convinces herself it was merely a really bad trip; it wouldn't be the first time she's completely hallucinated a very realistic, life-threatening scenario. It's hard to think straight, hard to think anything at all in the abyss of her mind. She gives up on it for the time being, going along with whatever Vriska bossily tells her to do.

      In the McDonald's bathroom, she takes a moment. She takes a deep breath, washes her face off. If she thinks about it too hard, she can still feel him in the room with her. It's possible, that he snuck in without her realizing. Her spine tingles, and she calls out a quiet, 'hello?' There's no answer. To be extra sure, she feels along the edges with her cane, waving it up and down as if to get rid of stray spiderwebs. She's still not relaxed, but decides there's nothing she can do. She strips, stuffs her dirty clothes into her backpack, and pulls out another pair. She doesn't even bother to smell them. It makes her feel better, though, removing the clothes that he saw her in, and she decides to brush her teeth. 

      As she rummages around the front pocket of her backpack for her toothbrush, she pulls out a spoon. Confused, she plunges her hand in again, and finds a thin glass tube. Underneath it is a small, familiar baggie filled with powder and dark memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Announcement!: (just to avoid future confusion) I've gone back and changed things just a little bit; everyone is now from Florida instead of Georgia. I felt that I can do more with it, make it just that little bit better. Doesn't matter much but I'm a bit of a perfectionist.  
> Anyways, hope you have an excellent day wherever you are, thanks for reading :)


	15. Cosmic Charlie

_[Cosmic Charlie, how do you do?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v7TjA53JSxs) _

_Truckin' in style along the avenue_

_Dum de dum de do da lee do_

_Go on home, your mama's calling you_

 

_Calico Cal, ya come tell me the news_

_Calamity's waiting for a way to get to her_

_Rosey red and electric blue_

_I bought you a paddle for your paper canoe_

 

_Say you'll come back when you can_

_Whenever your airplane happens to land_

_Maybe I'll be back here too_

_It all depends on what's with you_

 

_Woke up waiting for a windy day_

_Cat on I since the first day of February_

_Mama keeps saying that the wind might blow_

_But standing here I say, "I just don't know."_

 

_New ones come in as the old ones go_

_Everything's moving here but much too slowly_

_A little bit quicker and we might have time_

_To say how do you do before we're left behind_

 

_Calliope wail like a seaside zoo_

_The very last lately inquired about you_

_It's really very one or two_

_The first you wanted the last I knew_

 

_I just wonder if you shouldn't feel_

_Less concerned about the people unreal_

_The very first word is, "How do you do?"_

_The last, "Go home, your mama's calling you."_

 

_Calling you ooh_

_Go on home, your mama's calling you_

_Calling you ooh_

_Go on home, your mama's calling you_

 

Camden, NJ

 

      It's been fun, John Mayer, Phil, and whoever the rest of these assholes on stage are.

      It's been a lot of fun, despite the anxiety and the poor personal hygiene and the absolutely _insufferable_ dickheads crawling all over the place. Despite, even, the porta potties.

      Good god... the fucking porta potties.

      But Karkat is just about at the very end of what his already short fuse can handle. Up until now, he thinks he's been handling everything with a fair amount of grace. In his own jittery, anal kind of way. What very little cool he's managed to retain has leaked out along with the sweat dripping down his temples as he stands in front of the boiling grill. Wavering threads of heat reach into the air above the line of grilled cheeses that he hastily throws at the hungry crowd. If he's lucky, they'll devour him and end his suffering.

      It's the first rush, before the concert, and Karkat has learned that the citizens of New Jersey are a special brand of stupid that don't know how to form a simple line. They swarm the small table, tossing money and demands at him, watching as he scurries around like the tool he is. A random kid with shaggy hair that hangs in his face rides his scooter in circles around the stand, running over people's feet - including Karkat's - and describing his food preferences in painful detail. He steals bread and pieces of cheese when Karkat isn't looking, giggling at the his frustration. In a moment of exasperation, staring down at the half-empty tub of butter on the grimy ground, Karkat pauses to take a deep breath, and wonder where the hell Dave went to. 

      "Hey, man, I'll trade you a line for a sammy, how 'bout it?" A man has slipped behind the table to make the illicit offer, talking wetly right in his ear canal. Karkat elbows him away.

      "Get out of my space. I don't want your fucking drugs. And get _off_ of my _goddamn cooler,_ you absolute fucking lowlife cretin." He swats at Mituna with the greasy spatula, who hardly seems to notice. He sways on top of the cooler, chatting obliviously to those who try to ask for a soda. Karkat slams a grilled cheese onto the napkin in his hand a bit too excitedly, and it sadly falls to the asphalt, right beside the butter.

      "Come on, man. I promise I ain't a cop." Karkat takes an angry, shuddering breath, black edging into his vision.

      "I said no, dickface. Give me money or get the fuck out of here."

      "You a pussy or somethin'? Don't wanna have a good time? I'll never understand _some people."_  His friend jeers from the side, running his thumb under his own nose. Karkat catches Mituna standing to reach into his seat to grab another beer for himself, and he takes the opportunity to shove him out of the way. He stumbles into the impatient arms of the customers, who boo Karkat and brush off the drunk. 

      "Get out of here, Mituna! You're ruining my goddamn business!" Mituna puffs his chest out, attempting to pull a tough guy act, while his threats still tangle around his tongue inaudibly. As Karkat opens the cooler again, pulling it out from underneath the table, the guys with the blow mock him. While Karkat struggles to keep a lid on his emotions, he feels a sharp, incessant poking on his back. He whirls around. _"What?"_ The kid, gnawing on a piece of stolen cheese, points to the grill.

      "Your sammiches are burning." 

      Karkat unleashes a frustrated howl and kicks the leg of the table, watching it crook to the side. The open bread bag spilling its contents into the dirt, a stray plastic knife topples off the edge. "God dammit! Motherfucking fuck it! Fuck this absolute garbage shit! Fuck it, and fuck _all_ of you! _Fuck!"_ He kicks it again for good measure, and the napkins, the foil, and the grill tip off, crashing to the ground. The small crowd gathered around the stand takes a step back, watching as he kicks the third leg down, completely collapsing his own business. "Fuck you, you drunk moron. And fuck _you,_ and fuck your mother for having you. Fuck you for _existing."_ He points an accusing finger at each one of the offensive fucks staining the air before him.  

      He turns the grill off, unscrews the small propane tank, and throws them - hot, greasy and full of crumbs - into the trunk of the car, right on top of his makeshift bed. After it, he throws in the table, and each individual piece of clutter, with a colorful swear. When he turns back, the crowd has dispersed, though a few people still stand back to watch their pre-show entertainment. Nothing like a good story to tell your other yuppie friends about the weirdo Dead Heads. He has plenty of words to offer them as well; he has a soft spot for people that have been ostracized, so he makes sure to give everyone whose eyes he meets a cordial 'fuck you.' Mituna has wandered over to The Bee Guy's car, attempting to open the back and raving about sitting on _his_ cooler instead, it's a better cooler anyways. _Fuck_ your cooler, bro. The brat on the scooter is keeled over in obnoxious, high-pitched laughter, pointing at Karkat when the dirty butter slips from his hands for the third time. Karkat barely manages to restrain himself from giving the kid a piece of his mind as well.

      In finality, he slams the trunk closed, and whirls around to find a phone in his face. Instinctively, he knocks it out of the inconsiderate douchebag's hands, and then shoves at their shoulders, stepping close to intimidate them like he's seen Dave do. They stumble backwards, scrawny and awkward-footed.

      "Yeah, kick his ass, baby!" Marvus calls lazily from across the aisle.

      "Okay, okay! I'll stop recording you, I'll stop! Chill out." They chuckle in amusement, sidestepping Karkat as he pushes past them. The kid snatches the phone off the ground, holding it so close to his face that his greasy lips take up the whole screen.

      "I'm Diemen, and I was just telling him about how much I like hot dogs. Will you record me?" He shoves the phone back into the person's hands, and they fumble with it. 

      "Sure, little man, I'll record you. This is Cirava, successfully having infiltrated the cool kid's crowd. Featuring Diemen the hot dog lover, and... whoever this pissbaby is." Cirava sticks out their bejeweled tongue, and lifts their neon yellow shutter shade glasses to wink. Because someone up there _really_ has it out for him, they both follow Karkat. Still with the poking, and the snickering, and the recording. When he finds Dave, he's going to actually, literally, physically kick his ass.

      "Am I gonna be on TV? What's this for?" Diemen finally asks, tugging on Cirava's bright red crop-top. Karkat has never hated anyone so much for something as petty as the way they dress, but the gender-bender douche has earned the trophy.

      "It's a live vlog for the people that couldn't make it. I'm gonna record the show. You guys goin' in?" 

      "No, probably not. We don't usually get into shows unless someone gives us a ticket for free. I'll trade you one of my mom's beers for a ticket. I can go in by myself, I've done it before. I've already finished my homework for today." Karkat slinks between a group of people to try and lose them, but they're both accustomed to keeping up with people in a crowd and stick close. 

      "Homework? In the middle of summer?" 

      "Yep, I'm homeschooled so my mom gives me just a few lessons all throughout the year. I don't mind, I like learning!" Karkat suddenly gets a flash of seeing a kid making a model of something out of beer cans and duct tape. A woman had been stooped beside him, reading out of a textbook, and together they stuck dirty plastic straws into their sculpture. He remembers Dave telling him that the kid's mom beat him sometimes.

      "What about you, angry man? Gettin' in tonight?" 

      "Fuck off." Last summer, she had scared him so bad that he locked himself in their van and sat their crying and shaking. Dave and Dirk had pulled her away, screaming and lunging at the car like a rabid animal. No drugs were involved, he said. Some people just be like that.

      "Ooh, ooh! Look, look, look! Funnel cakes, those guys are never here!" Diemen tugs on Karkat's shirt, his scooter pinching the back of his heel. Karkat twists around, balling his fists in front of him. The kid flinches, cringing into his collar, and Karkat's rage instantly seeps away, replaced with the familiar ache of empathy. He gently pulls the kid beside the stand, and kneels in front of him.  

      "Listen, I'll get you a funnel cake - be quiet!" Diemen whines behind his hands covering his mouth, bouncing up and down in excitement at the prospect of a free dessert. "It's a bribe, do you know what that is? Good. It's a bribe to get you to _leave me alone._ Which means when I give this to you, you stop following me. Got it?" He nods emphatically. 

      Karkat shoves his way to the front of the line, ignoring the scoffs and insults. The woman running the stand returns to the ordering station with an exhausted smile, oblivious. The moment he gets his funnel cake, Diemen scooters away, leaving a waft of powdered sugar in his wake. As Karkat begins to walk away, the guy directly behind him in line sticks his foot out, tripping him. Immediately, Karkat whirls around and balls his hands in the guy's shirt. Before he even has a chance to threaten him, he throws his hands up and apologizes. Karkat calls him a fucking yuppie, and the guy calls him a dirty hippie. As Karkat walks away again, he shakes his head at the multitude of voices calling him crazy. It's the second time today that these - these  _people_ have talked to him like  _he's_ the freak.

      Cirava sidles up beside him, struggling to keep up. Still recording, because of course they are. Casually, they ask, "So what are you up to, who you lookin' for?" 

      "No one. Leave me alone." 

      "I can help you. I'm good at finding people, especially interesting ones. You seem like the kinda guy that has interesting friends." They pan the phone around the crowd, occasionally lifting it above their heads. Otherwise, they're quiet as they follow Karkat through the crowd. It would be so much easier, everything in the history of ever, if Dave would just get a phone. He operates under the assumption that because he's never had one, he'll never get or need one. Not even a flip phone. Easier to stay under the radar, he says. He isn't stalked by the government, or being brainwashed by social media, he says.

      Prick.

      On the other side of the parking lot, near the entrance of the stadium, said prick is having a similarly shitty day. The Joker keeps pace with him as he heads back to Karkat's stand, a sneer climbing up his acne-pocked face. He's alone, and so is Dave. He wonders if there's any reason not to dropkick him right then, stop his pseudo-friendly chat and get it over with. Bragging about how good his business is, how close he is to his guys, that they've got some special plans coming up. He's just trying to scare him and piss him off so that when shit finally hits the fan he'll be the victim and everyone will gang up on Dave. 

      "Dude, I seriously don't want to even look at your ugly face. Message loud and clear: you're plannin' some kinda gangbang or whatever, I don't really give a shit. Quit tryin' to be coy, you're bad at it. Just grow a pair and fuckin' do it, like a man." He stops to look him in the eye. They both remember how easily Dave had gotten on top of him, how close he had been to winning. Alone, the Joker wouldn't stand a chance.

      "Ain't you just a smart cookie. I know you won't be believin' me but I ain't got nothin' nasty planned. I just feel bad about little ole Bull spreadin' those rumors. He's still learnin', you know? Thought he was helpin' us out." Dave shakes his head and starts walking again. "So, uh, I know you've been gettin' to carin' for ole Karkat in some typa way." Dave's ears perk up and flatten against his head. He shrugs.

      "Yeah, we've been bros since high school. So what?" 

      "Well, you know how shit is. Accidents happen. It's all love and titties until someone runs their mouth. Me and my men, well, we're men, we know how to keep the peace. But Bull's got a couple of bad habits. I know you don't be carin' for yourself in anyway, and you used to gettin' beat on. But Karkat..." He steps out in front of him, and Dave sees that one of his eyes is slightly droopier than the other. He fights the urge to take a step back in repulsion, lest it be misinterpreted for intimidation. "He ain't used to pain. Love the little fucker, but he a pussy. One bitch slap would send him to the ground in a ball-a tears. I'd hate to see him get hurt." A hand claps on the Joker's shoulder, and he turns a bit with the shadow of a dark glare. Someone asks him what's up, and trailing behind them is Karkat himself. The slimy grin is back, and the Joker mutters, "Speakin' of the cock sucker..." Turning to the one who touched him, he jovially exclaims, "Cirava, my guy, how it be?" 

      "You just call me a cocksucker...?" They laugh jovially, and the two exchange that handshake and snap that only legitimately cool people know how to do.

      "Nah, nah, don't worry about it. The usual?" Cirava shoves the phone into their pocket, digging into the other, and comes out with a ticket stub. Very subtly, the Joker pulls out a colorful ten strip and slaps it into Cirava's palm. With a friendly smile and wave, he twists on his heels and begins towards the stadium. 

      "You guys want one or two?" Cirava peels half of the strip and shoves it in their mouth. Dave shakes his head.

      "Nah, I'm trying to tamp my tolerance down. I could dump a whole bag of crystals in my mouth and not feel nothin'." This isn't a lie. He'd normally take the offer anyways, but he doesn't want to touch any of the Joker's shit with a ten foot pole. Cirava accepts this easily, and they both look to Karkat.

      "No, thanks. I'm not really in the mood." He thinks maybe he'll just dip into his emergency stash and get a hotel, skip the show and call it early for the night. 

      "C'mon, it'll make you feel better." Cirava holds out the paper again. 

      "God, you too? Are you fucking kidding me? What the hell is with you goddamn people and trying to peer pressure me into doing shit I _don't want to fucking do?_ I had a guy offer me ketamine today, and when I said no he got all of his little friends to call me names and chant 'do it' like a bunch of fucking twelve year olds. Can't any of you cunts take no for an answer?" Dave smiles - a good old fashioned Karkat bitchfit always cheers him up- and Cirava holds their hands up in surrender, stuffing the rest in their pocket.

      "Alright, damn, sorry for offering."

      "Where were you, Dave? I was having a real shit time. This place is gross." He had pictured tearing Dave a new one. After seeing his shoulders all tense with whatever the Joker said to him, the fight trickles away, leaving plain old stress in its place.

      "Yeah, I told you Jersey's one of the darkest venues for that shit. Sorry, I didn't mean to abandon you, I just got caught up with stuff." He flicks his eyes over to Cirava, who snickers as they scroll through their phone. When they look up and see both faces turned towards them, they turn their phone around.

      "You guys ever head of the Lot Shitter?" Karkat's eyebrows shoot up and with wide eyes, he looks to Dave, whose face remains perfectly blank. On the screen is a grainy picture of the wall of a porta potty with damp toilet paper almost perfectly framing a small sketch in sharpie of a record with a lightning bolt cracking through it. Below it, today's date. "Every single year, this guy tags gas station bathrooms, hotel bathrooms, the bathrooms at the venues. So now I've got an Instagram to document his travels and try to figure out who he is. Brownie points for anyone who finds tags from other tours." They exit the photo to an Instagram page full of Dave's tag in various bathrooms across the country. The corner of Dave's mouth twitches ever so slightly. 

      "Huh, that's pretty cool. Any clues as to who it could be?" He asks inconspicuously. 

      "Nope, no one has seen him do it or stayed with him or anything. The dude's good, he really doesn't want to be discovered." Dave can't help but smile at that; he hasn't put in any effort at all to hide it. He has, in fact, drawn it in front of several people, but the only one who seems to have connected the dots is Karkat. The mischief is interrupted by an excitable young man racing towards them, joining their little circle.

      "Oh, hey, I was just about to call you guys! I got us tickets for like twenty bucks each, look!" John triumphantly holds up four tickets, and Cirava immediately cringes.

      "Yeah, you got robbed. Those are fake." John's smile instantly disappears.

      "What? How do you know?" 

      "Because these are real tickets." They pull out a stack of legit tickets. John holds his own beside them, wrinkling his nose in confusion.

      "They look exactly the same."

      "That's how they get you. Let me guess, bald black guys standing just across the parking lot entrance, shouting about how much of a hurry they're in to get rid of them?" John's eyes go wide.

      "Well, yeah, okay, but... these were like, printed from their computer or something." He looks down at his fake tickets sadly, as if even he doesn't believe the weak defense.

      "Sure. When they refuse to let you in, you can just come to me and I'll give you the real shit. Eighty bucks a pop." 

      "You know what? Fuck it. I can make plenty more at the next show."

      "That's the spirit." Cirava grins and takes John's money, handing him a ticket.

      "Sorry guys, guess you're out of luck. I'm just about broke now."

      "Oh, that's alright. Here." Cirava peels out two tickets and hands them to Dave and Karkat. "I like you guys. See you inside." They flash a quick salute and grin, walking backwards towards the stadium with their phone in their hand again. John yells after them in outrage.

      "I can't believe this. This is _so_ unfair," he complains.

      "It's all about connections, dude. Let's just go in already, I could really use a fuckin' break." 

      "Yeah, I think I'll actually pass on this one." Karkat rubs at the back of his neck. "Just... chill out with Bee and finish my book, I've only got a couple chapters left. I'm tired." Dave turns to him, and John rolls his eyes. While they have one of their infamous feelings jams, he trots up the hill by himself. He's bound to make some friends once he's inside, anyways.

      "I know you've had enough peer pressure for one day, I'm not gonna try to convince you. I just want to point out that you've left every concert in a better mood than you went in. Plus, man, we just got  _free_ tickets. I'll buy you drinks and dinner." Dave bumps his shoulder into Karkat's, and they both smile at each other. In spite of how often he pretends to be angry at Dave, it's always difficult to feel bad when he's around.

      "Yeah, alright. How can I refuse an offer from the almighty Lot Shitter?" Chuckling, he accepts Dave's arm around his shoulders, and they start for the stadium. 

      They both prefer the lawn area; more space to dance, and less damp bodies to suffocate in. The setting sun paints the sky in pink and purple, cooling the air to a comfortable temperature. It reminds Karkat of his very first concert, all those months ago. He had looked up at the same sky and it was as if the whole world had suddenly snapped into place, like he was going to embark on an amazing adventure. It seems so long ago. An entire lifetime, an entirely different Karkat. There are several songs he recognizes now, from the CD's that Dave insists on playing over and over again. When he really listens to the lyrics, he can understand why the band is so iconic. Sure, they have plenty of love songs like everyone else, but most of what they play are stories. There's a character, and you can really  _feel_ who they are through the music. And the  _music..._ Karkat looks up at the endless void of the black sky, swaying as he listens to the guitar riffs and the funky sounds intertwined with the familiar ones. It all has a certain groove to it, like they're twisting around each other to create a vibrant painting in the ear drum. Concerts have never been his favorite pastime, especially when he doesn't know the words, but this is the closest he's been to 'getting it.' This is, after all, the whole point. And it's a pretty good one, he's starting to realize. 

      Beside him, Dave is more reserved than usual. He still dances, but it's less with the passionate fervor of someone dancing away every particle of anger and sadness as if his life depends on it - and more someone engaging in a comforting ritual after a stressful day. He catches Karkat watching him and smiles, exaggerating his smooth moves to make him laugh. It works, and he grins even wider. A surge of euphoria fills Karkat's chest, and he continues to laugh at the absurdity of the world. Gripping Dave's shoulder, tears running down his cheeks, he wheezes with the weight of how stupid everything is. For the first time, he feels the relief of freedom circling around him. There's an entire country at his fingertips, and he's been wasting his power on the same things he swore he'd leave behind him. He should really yell at people more often.

      When the drums start up, they plop to the grass, breathing just a little heavier than normal. They sit close, not touching, but leaning towards each other as if drawn together like a magnet. Normally, this is when they'd leave to prep the stand for the last rush. But tonight, they enjoy the luxury of hearing the final two songs of the set, and getting trampled by the crowd as everyone floods back out into the parking lot. Karkat chances a stray hand on Dave's knee. Without thinking, Dave grins and scoots an inch closer.

      After the concert, they find Dirk waiting at the station wagon. He looks more normal than even Karkat does in cargo shorts and a plain black tank top. For being one of the most popular, well-known, liked, and dare-I-say vital members of anyone on Lot, he looks out of place here. His face is hard and serious, carved in stone and decorated with his signature sunglasses. The brothers silently exchange money and goods. They still haven't talked about Dave's little outburst. They never do, and they never will. Forgive and forget. As Dirk counts, sitting sideways in the passenger seat, Dave glances over. Karkat cracks open a soda and hands it to Diemen, who gives Dave an excitable wave. He waves back, and the two of them walk away, probably to find his parents. Knowing Karkat, he could be taking him to the courthouse to adopt him right then. He'll be a good social worker, one of the rare few that actually make a difference. Dave rests an arm on the roof of the car and leans in, lowering his voice.  

      "Yo, can I ask you a favor?" Dirk nods in acknowledgement as he continues counting. "I know that I don't really have too much to worry about with the Joker and all his clowns, plenty of backup and all that. I don't mind getting into a fight or anything, I'll beat his ass any day of the week. But uh, he threatened Karkat earlier." Dirk glances up at him from the top of his sunglasses, and Dave looks away. He doesn't consider himself a very spiritual person, but he's completely convinced that Dirk can read minds. "No offense to the guy, but he's kind of a fucking wimp. That's why the Joker threatened him." Dirk looks at him with deadpan skepticism and Dave's cheeks burn. "Anyways, could you just watch his back? If shit goes sideways, if you can, could you just, like, get him out of there so he doesn't get hurt?" Dirk taps a portion of the money into an even, thick wad, wraps it with a rubber band, and stuffs it in the glove box. 

      "He's a grown ass man, he doesn't need to be protected." He stands, and Dave takes a step back, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "But if it'll ease your mind, sure, I'll smuggle him away from all violence and possible harm and take him to a padded room while you get your ass beat. Watch it, your boner's showing." Dave quickly looks down, his hands jerking out to cover himself. Seeing that his pants are perfectly flat, he gives his brother an icy stare and returns them back to their pockets. The corner of Dirk's mouth twitches into what could almost be a smile as he walks away. 

      Dave and Karkat cross the massive bridge that leads to Philadelphia, and another bloom of warmth explodes in Karkat's chest. Dazzling lights sparkle from the city ahead of them, the skyline of tall buildings seeming small from such a distance and height. New York was the first big city he'd ever been in; every time he sees a skyscraper, he finds it hard to breathe. They stop at a tiny, run-down shack on a street corner and get authentic philly cheese steak sandwiches. The grease pours down their chins, streams from their hands, and soaks straight through their pants. It's disgustingly delicious. 

     They wind through a maze of brown buildings that all look exactly the same with snaking one-way streets that send them in circles. They find a lone parking space a few blocks over from their destination, another connection from Dave's bottomless pit of friendships. It's silent as they walk from one streetlamp to another in the eerily empty streets. A frat boy answers the door at the top of a long, narrow staircase, and reminds them not to use his bathroom under any circumstances. Only the one upstairs, past the crooked poster of a half-naked woman lounging on an expensive car. After sitting inside and catching up for as long as is socially acceptable, Dave lightly slaps at Karkat's shoulder with the back of his hand and says, "I'm gonna go smoke one last cigarette. You wanna come with me?" He says this through the curtain of smoke hanging between them, hoping that no one points it out.

      Outside, they sit on the front steps, like something out of a movie. Karkat pulls out the joint he had kept in Dave's box of cigarettes and they smoke together in silence, except for the sound of distant traffic. Karkat finds that he hates it when Dave is quiet. As much as he complains about the guy never shutting the fuck up, he likes the sound of his voice. It's easy to fall asleep to his droning nonsense. Without his permission, his thoughts turn to when Dave had held his hand, when he slung his arm around Karkat's shoulders and thoughtlessly ran a gentle thumb across his arm. He glances at his friend, free of his emergency pair of sunglasses - he'd probably lost them already - and blinking lazily at his feet. He wonders how Dave would respond if he just... reached over and grabbed his hand. Surprising them both, Karkat asks, "How close are we?" 

      Without missing a beat, Dave holds his hands between their shoulders, humming in consideration. "Probably about a foot. Little less than that maybe. Give or take like two inches. Maybe three." Karkat sighs, glaring over at him.

      "I'm serious. You're a hard person to figure out, and I like to know where I stand with people. Are we, like, friends? Close friends?" Borderline lovers mutually pining after one another?

      "Dude, of course we're friends. You don't ever have to doubt our broship, how could you say such a thing? It's cemented and solid, rock hard like a Ron Jeremy film." Karkat doesn't answer. His face sags with exhaustion and he leans back on his elbows, taking a long, slow drag from his blunt. The dude oozes a yearning that Dave doesn't understand. He considers leaving it at that, but for once, he thinks he just might owe it to Karkat to elaborate just a _little_ more. Definitely not because he hopes Karkat will tell him in no uncertain terms that Dave is the only person he's ever felt a connection with. Definitely not that. "I honestly don't know, Karkat. It's hard for me to connect with people." 

      "Why?" Dave lets out a single, soft laugh. Of course he's going to keep prying, until he fully understands everything. People don't do that. They don't want to understand others, they only want others to understand _them._ But Karkat is always so focused on those around him, wanting to help and comfort and guide them. He's the only person in the whole world, Dave realizes, that he trusts. So he takes a risk, and shows Karkat how much that trust means to him. Maybe he can form his own answer from that.

       "Because I'm afraid of it, I guess. Of being close to people. I'm afraid of not having complete freedom. There's so much... expectation that comes out of a close relationship with a person, platonic or otherwise. I sure as fuck don't expect anyone to keep their promises or not disappoint me, and I don't really care for anyone holding me to the same standards. And, I guess, I'm afraid of caring about someone more than I care about myself. And I _don't_ care about myself, so if I care about someone else at all then they've got more power over me than even I do. And they'll know that, and they'll take advantage of me. Cause that's what people do. They sniff out other people's weaknesses and _use_ them." He shakes his head and leans back casually.

      "Human beings are just... awful. They're egotistical and dumb and cruel, trapped in their own little bubbles of selfishness. They don't give a shit about me, or anyone else. These assholes on Lot that call themselves 'family?' It's born out of desperation. They say that it's a place of giving, where people just want to help others, but it's bullshit. People join this stupid fucking cult because they know that it's crawling with drugs and because they can't function in regular society. There are bottom feeders just like them who'll screw you over in the blink of an eye. They don't give out of the goodness of their hearts, they give so that when they need something they can say, 'I helped you, and if you don't help me, I'll fuck up your life' and feel justified for it. The only things they value are freedom and keepin' your fuckin' mouth shut. They've taken this beautiful thing that used to be about love and awareness and gratitude and twisted it into something dirty and corrupted." He scoffs, shaking his head again as he takes a deep inhale of smoke and holds it before releasing it through his nose. "So, yeah, I don't feel particularly close to the human species in general. We ain't worth shit." 

      Karkat sits up to look at Dave with his eyes heavy and his eyebrows drawn. It's pity, and on anyone else, Dave would have wanted to punch the look right off of them. But it's different with Karkat. It's not secondhand pity, forced because it's the appropriate reaction, and he isn't look down on him; it's genuine sadness on Dave's behalf. It's because he cares, and the fact that Dave can know that and feel that without question, that he can so easily tell exactly how Karkat feels about him - and it makes Dave's throat feel funny to think about how he feels about him - is a miracle in itself. He looks back at him openly.

      "That's an incredibly fucked up perspective, Dave. And it's wrong, I promise you not everyone is like that. Like you said, it's these Lot kids, your field of perspective is too narrow. People aren't evil and selfish, you just need better friends." He really believes that, doesn't he? After everything he's seen today, and he still hasn't lost his hope in humanity. "If you think so lowly of them, then why do you go on tour every summer? And go to every concert in town? And hang out with the same people all the time? Why not try to see what else is out there?" Dave sticks his free hand in his armpit. That's his way of saying he'd rather not talk about it, Karkat has learned, but doesn't retract his question.

      "Because... they're like me, I guess. They don't know how to function in society, and they're all excruciatingly alone, so they cover it up by calling everyone that pretends to be nice to them 'family.' Cause they don't make me feel like shit for sleeping in gutters and not showering for days. Because it's easy to hand them a little square of paper or bag of buds for more money than I'd be making flipping burgers eight hours a day. Because if I don't want to answer their questions, they don't pry, but they also don't dismiss me as beneath them. Usually." He shrugs, crushing his cigarette beneath his heel.

      "That's valid, but you're still wrong. You're _not_ like them, that's why you have such a problem with them. You're not needlessly cruel, or pretend to be better than anyone else, you're genuinely kind and fair and considerate. Just because you can insert yourself into their world and get by unnoticed doesn't mean you're actually one of them. Not if you don't want to be. Just because society or your friends or whoever expect you to be a certain way doesn't mean that's who you are, who you have to default to. If you want to change, you can." Their eyes briefly meet in the pale streetlight.  

      "I'm just like them, you know. It's just one big ego fuck for me, because I feel like I'm better than them. Smarter and better off. Around here, I'm one of the big guys that people _respect_ and aspire to be. I'm fucked up, Karkat. Why don't you get that?" To his surprise, Karkat glares at him.

      "I  _do_ get that. I know you better than you give me credit for. That's why I offered you my couch in the first place, why I consistently tried to be your friend all these years despite how obnoxiously rude you've always been to me. You're a good person behind all of your sarcasm and detachment and trauma. You feel like an outsider because everyone has treated you like shit. I don't blame you for doing the one thing your dad actually taught you to do and for sticking around people that make you feel better about yourself. I don't exactly agree with it. But I get it. So don't you dare go around moping that I'm only hanging out with you because you're Mr. Too Hard to Figure Out. I know you as well as I can with what little you've given me." Karkat seems so sure of his interpretation. Dave worries about when he'll let him down and screw him over like he's done to everyone else in his life. Maybe it's better to cut off whatever is going on on between them before he hurts him. But, of course, as has already been established, he's just as selfish as anyone else.

      "It's funny... I've spent my entire life alone. I, well, you know, as a kid, I..." For whatever reason, Dave's feeling particularly prone to sharing. Karkat has a way of doing that to him, and Dave would have a hard time fighting it even if he wanted to. "Well, you know, it was just fucked up. I always knew, even as a little kid, without a doubt, that I would _always_ be alone. In every sense, a life of infinite loneliness. Because people aren't reliable, they're not trustworthy. I'd never have a close friend that I could talk about anything with, never have a close, stable family. Fucking for _get_ about being in love, that ain't _never_ gonna happen." With great effort, Karkat makes no physical reaction to that. "And I've always been fine with that. It's easier to be alone, to not have to put on a show, to constantly have to guess what someone actually means or figure out what they're going to do next. People suck, I'm better off without them. I've gotten this far, I don't need them, I don't _want_ them. But, honestly... since actually getting to know you these last couple of months, I finally understand what it's like to not feel lonely. Hell, I didn't even know I _was_ lonely until I realized I'd rather be with you than be alone. Because, I don't know. It's just easy, I guess. Just existing with you is as easy as breathing. It's a relief." As he acknowledges the truth in his words, he lets his shoulders relax. "That has quite literally _never_ happened with anyone else, even with myself. If that answers your question." He looks down at his lap, avoiding eye contact.

      Karkat keeps his eyes on the dark streets, making no indication of emotion, but his chest swells a bit with a strange feeling he can't quite identify. He mulls over the response, blinking away his traitorously tearful eyes, and a long time passes before he can take a deep enough breath to respond. When he turns to Dave, he's already looking at him expectantly. He shifts so he's facing him fully.

      "That really means a lot to me. Both that you feel safe with me, and that you're comfortable enough to tell me. Thank you, for that. I think... I mean, I think that... I don't know, maybe this is too forward of me," he laughs uncomfortably, and Dave smirks, seeming to enjoy his squirming. He musters every ounce of the elated confidence he had felt just hours prior at the concert. "But, maybe we could just, like, try... to... you know, like-" He's startled by the vibrating music coming from his back pocket. He silences his phone, and starts again. "Sorry, anyways... as if this isn't hard enough to-" It rings again, and he silences it again. It goes off a third time before he even has the chance to put it down. He listens quietly to The Bee Guy's stiff voice, mourning yet another quality moment interrupted by someone else's crisis. "We've gotta go pick up John and Dragonfly; Bee's going back home."

      "Like, to Florida?"

      "Yep." 

      "Like... right now?"

      "Yep."

 

      John sprawls out in the backseat of The Bee Guy's car, snoring away. He's since been lulled into the trap of gateway drugs. First it was just a balloon or two, then a joint or two, then a pill or two. A tab and a drink and a snort. His healthy fear of prison seems to have disappeared, replaced with a sense of community that operates outside the law. And a really good buzz. The Bee Guy slumps against the car, staring at the ground. For once, his cousin is sober, but the untrained eye wouldn't be able to tell. He still sways on his feet, his words still slur together. The difference is that he's not laughing or yelling, and his eyes dart all around him instead of staring blankly at one place. He's been a drunk for so long his blood must be made of alcohol at this point, but at least he's still somewhat functional.

      "I just don't know where to bury her ashes. I've been looking for someplace good, but... nothing seems quite right, you know?" Though he looks distracted, Mituna nods, then shakes his head sympathetically.

      "Yeah, man, I dunno... I never met her, but I only ever heard good things about her. Didn't ever start shit, never went after anybody. Always gave people things that she made herself. Nice lady you had, there. Sorry to hear she's gone." His words are casual, but thoughtful. The Bee Guy nods, lightly kicking at a stray beer can. The parking lot is empty, save for an ocean of garbage and a few cars on the other side where a group of people scream at each other, throwing things out of their van. The two cousins watch for a bit, not saying anything. It's rare that there are no cops around to force everybody out. The Bee Guy squints at a lone figure standing away from it all, leaning against what looks like a cane.

      "Is that Dragonfly?" He asks, pointing as he starts his way over. Behind him, Mituna sighs, watching his younger cousin storm across the parking lot. It's an affectionate gaze, fondly regarding the mistakes of a kid still in the grips of growing up. They'll figure it out, he's sure; they're a hell of a lot smarter than he ever was.

      "U-um, excuse me..." A small voice says, and Mituna turns. He's on the ground, screaming, before he knows what happened. There was the sound of someone taking a deep breath, then a stinging in his eyes. His nose fills with mucus, and his mouth is covered in a layer of tasteless powder. He spits on the ground, rubbing at his eyes furiously.

      "What the fuck just happened?" The Bee Guy shouts as he jogs back. A small shadow darts between streetlights, and The Bee Guy watches it go as he kneels on the ground. Mituna mutters a quiet string of curses, rocking as he rubs at his face and spits and sniffles. "Hey, man, what the fuck happened?"

      "They dusted me..." He says in a dark voice. He looks at The Bee Guy with wide, red-rimmed eyes, snot, saliva and tears spilling over his lips. "They fucking dusted me, Sollux." His hands clamp hard on Bee's tiny shoulders. "You have to kill me."

      "What?"

      "Kill me. Please. I can't live like this. Fucking kill me." His voice increases in desperation, and he shakes The Bee Guy in desperation. "I can already feel it, god _dammit._ Just fucking blow my brains out already! Fucking _kill me!"_ The Bee Guy peels his hands away by the wrists, but Mituna latches onto him again.

      Around his pathetic whimpering and begging, The Bee Guy says, "Dude, chill out. Why would anyone want to dust you?"

      "I snitched. I didn't want to go to prison. I snitched, I don't know how they found out. I'm sorry, I know I broke the rules. You don't fuckin' snitch and I did and I'm sorry but I did it. Kill me please, just fucking kill me." He screams wordlessly in The Bee Guy's face, then drops to the ground, slamming his face into the concrete. The Bee Guy watches in shock as he writhes on the ground before numbly slipping his phone out of his pocket. 

      He sits on the ground limply, letting Mituna wipe his face on his shirt and cling to him. Despite Bee's doubt that dusting does anything more than give someone a bad trip that lasts too long, fear wraps around his throat. In a rare moment of empathy, he's genuinely terrified of what is happening in Mituna's mind. He's always been a rather dramatic person, reacting with his emotions way before his head can catch up. Regardless of how severe or permanent it is, it's bound to be a traumatizing experience. When Mituna vomits between his legs, The Bee Guy lifts him to his feet and leans him against the trunk of the car. His legs give out and he's back on his knees. He refuses to open his eyes, cupping his palms over them like a child afraid to come out from under the bed. Seeing a grown man, one he grew up with, reduced to a blubbrting mess strikes Bee silent.

      After the ambulance takes Mituna away, screaming and nearly convulsing on the gurney, desperately pleading for someone to kill him, The Bee Guy calls Karkat. He paces as he explains, "I'm going home. I can't fucking take it. I can't fucking take it, Karkat. These people are fucking _insane._ I need you to come pick up John. Dragonfly will probably come with me, she's miserable too, I'm sure I can convince her. I just can't take it anymore..." Then he crouches with his head between his knees, his hands cupping the back of his neck for a long time. When he's caught his breath, he starts again for the car on the opposite end of the parking lot, letting his feet carry him away. Dragonfly leans against a lamppost, smoking a cigarette as the arguing groupies scurry around to shove their belongings back in their van. They work together like a fluid machine, never stepping on each other's toes, exchanging not a single word; they already know exactly where everything needs to go. As The Bee Guy approaches, he shouts her name, and she turns to him with an expression he can't place. A mixture of annoyance and anticipation, maybe.

      "Oh, good, you're here. They probably don't have room in their van for me anyways. What was with the ambulance, was that you guys? With all those lights we thought someone had called the cops." 

      "Someone dusted Mituna because he snitched. Probably the Joker. Listen, Dragonfly, I'm going home. Tonight. Right after Karkat and Dave pick up John." She pauses with the cigarette resting on her lip. 

      "You're leaving?" He nods, despite knowing she can't see him. "You're leaving. After all of this bullshit about staying together, how we need each other, and _you're_ the one leaving _me._  You're unbelievable." 

      Once again, he's dumb with shock. He sputters, stumbling over his words, "I - you... what? Are you fucking kidding me? I - I didn't even want to come out here in the first place, you practically fucking forced me." She scoffs. 

      "I didn't _force_ you to do shit. I didn't want to hang around-"

      "You screamed in my fucking _face_ that you wanted me to leave-"

      "Don't be so dramatic-" He grips at his hair, turning in a frustrated circle.

_"What?_ You're fucking _crazy_ , you know that?" She reels back from that, silent in her own shock. "Look, this isn't _good_ for you. These people aren't your friends, the Joker is lurking around, there's drugs everywhere. I literally _just_ saw them fuck up my own cousin so bad he had to go to the hospital, don't think for a second they won't do the same to you if you step out of line." He takes a step closer, shaking the cigarette from her hand as he takes both of them in his own. "If you come back with me we can start over. We can live in the goddamn woods if you want, anything. I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry you're hurting, I'm sorry for yelling, for pressuring you. But we can move past it and just start over. We can go to the next town over, or move down to Miami if you want more excitement. Let's just go home. I'm tired, aren't you?" 

      Karkat's loud station wagon rattles into the parking lot, pulling up beside Bee's car. Dragonfly says, "I don't have a home." And wrenches her hands away, crossing her arms. The Bee Guy takes a step back, shaking his head, and watches her tap her way towards the sound of Karkat's frantic voice. After the five of them rearrange the back of the car and drag in a half-conscious John, she faces The Bee Guy again. They stand there, suspended in the moment, both of them waiting for the other to give in. She looks sad, heavy with a grief she doesn't have the right to feel. Her lips are pressed firmly closed, and her backpack is already being used as John's pillow. 

      "Fine." He turns, then freezes, shaking his head. He spins back again, stalking towards her. "All you've ever wanted is to be loved, right? And you've felt like hot shit because you've convinced yourself that you're horrible, that no one could possibly love you. But then as soon as someone offers _everything -_ fucking _everything,_ Dragonfly." He throws his arms open, walking backwards. He faces towards his car then pivots yet again, still shaking his head and muttering, holding up a finger as if to say more. Turns, takes a few steps forward. "She isn't the only one that loved you, you know. I'll give up my house, all my friends, my fucking peace of mind to make you whole." He cuts himself off, and opens the car door. Then he thinks better of it and confronts her one last time, saying in a low voice, "But you just can't accept that. You want to live your life wallowing in your own misery and dragging everyone around you down. I can't do it anymore. I can't... I can't fucking take it. You're just too much." He climbs in and leaves without another moment of hesitation. 

      She listens to the sound of his car disappearing into the night, and stands for a moment on her sore feet. With her back leaning against Karkat's seat and John snoring beside her, she wonders when she hit rock bottom. It seems she can't get any lower, and yet she keeps sinking and sinking. She wishes it would happen already, a total collapse so she can fall apart and let it all out. Explode, disappear a little bit. 

      Remembering the gift that the Joker left her, she tells them to stop at the next gas station so she can use the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fucking hate New Jersey.


	16. Born Cross-Eyed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all sorry for disappearing, I've got Stuff going on in my life.  
> This is a good song live. The beginning, the end, and every time they slam on that guitar... when I listen to it, I remember how it feels reverberating in my chest. It's a good feeling. I almost used a different song for this chapter because this one reminds me of the fourth and is one of my favorite GD songs ever, but I'll just give it a special mention: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kipR-HadbTs

_[Seems like I've been here before](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mhndGhkp-8U) _

_Fuzzy then and still so obscure_

_Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye_

_And I don't want to see anybody cry_

_Meet me some mornin' in the sweet by and by_

_By and by, by and by_

 

_Song comin' on_

_So pleasin' to see, come and gone_

_Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye_

_You don't have to tell me why_

_Meet me some mornin' in the sweet by and by_

_By and by, by and by_

 

_It ain't cause I'm the only one left darlin'_

_Bout the time the sun rises West_

_Feelin' groovy, lookin' fine_

 

_Think I'll come back here again_

_Every now and then from time to time_

_My how lovely you are, my dear_

_The ball game has gone much too far my dear_

_Sing to me, do your thing to me_

_I'll meet you some mornin', meet you some mornin'_

_In the sweet by and by_

_By and by, by and by_

 

Chicago, IL

 

      "Hey! Hey can you help us?" Dave hangs out the window of the car as they come to a stoplight. Dragonfly's lips tug into a smile, and she chuckles at his and Karkat's bickering. People along the city streets turn their heads to glance, but it's nothing unusual. A pair of tourists stops, waiting politely for the question. "Can you tell us where the LSD is?" The woman immediately scoffs and pulls her kid away as the kid asks what LSD is. Dave roars with laughter. At the next stop light, he points at a guy in a wheelchair with rainbow-dyed hair. "Hey, you! You know where the LSD is, don't you?" The guy cackles and retorts that if he finds it to let him know, then slowly rolls away, grinning to himself. 

      "Dave, for the love of Christ, I know where I'm going. You don't have to yell at people-" Dave ignores him as they roll up to another stoplight in the endless row of red stoplights. When he finishes shouting his obnoxious jeer, the group he was haggling approaches the open windows. 

      One of them says, "Yeah, we know where Lakeshore Drive is. I'll tell ya if- Dragonfly? Bitch, where the hell have you been?" Dragonfly's ears prick up at the familiar voice. 

      "Vriska! Haven't seen you in a minute, what's up?" Vriska, along with Charun and Polypa, climb into the car without being prompted to, and they all ignore the angry honks of the cars around them as the light turns green. 

      It's a hot day, one of the hottest of the year, and not a single cloud in the sky. Between the dark concrete buildings of the city, the heat builds and turns the town into an oven. Chicago, Illinois, at the stadium on Lakeshore Drive - one of the busiest venues on tour besides New York City. Add in that it's the Fourth of July, and the city's just about ready to make its maximum occupation. There are a few mini Shakedowns in the various parking lots, but the "real" one is inside the stadium. Vendors had to register months before hand and pay a fee. This throws Dave into a righteous spiel about the capitalization of human souls, everyone knows this was implemented solely to prevent roadies from making money, because it's us against the rest of the world, the government is evil. Karkat tips off with his customary tantrum about not getting to make any money, which all he really gives a shit about. After at least an hour of perusing the parking lots, they find Marvus sitting in his lawn chair with the guitar in his lap in the middle of an empty parking space. Dave circles around a few times before biting the bullet and taking the offered space. Karkat attempts to put his stand up anyways but only sells a few sandwiches before venue security busts him.

      It's at this point - in the midst of shouting and Dave holding Karkat back from punching the guy in the bright yellow vest - that Dragonfly and the others make their escape, cruising around the parking lots on foot. Chicago was her favorite venue last year. They stroll along the sidewalks, past families with babies and bubbles, hand-made jewelry laid out on blankets, and shirts hanging off tailgates. It was around here that she had made those nice friends that taught her and Aradia how to do cool tricks with hula hoops. They had played frisbee with them by the lake for hours, then went into the show together and stayed the night in a fancy hotel suite. Making decent friends was so easy back then. What's changed, is it the world around her that's gone to shit? Is it her, has she done something wrong, or is she just growing up? Maybe it's always been this way and she's been too naive to see it. Maybe she's the one that's gone to shit.

      When they pass by Rose's humble little SUV, she calls out, "You never got your summer reading. It's bad luck, you know." Dragonfly forces a smile and wave, but Rose keeps going, "I did a reading for you, anyways. I got The Tower. If that makes any difference to you. Be careful, Dragonfly." Her last words get swept away with the rest of the jovial crowd, and are quickly forgotten. Those readings never mean anything to Dragonfly, anyways.

      Her skin itches, pressing against her too tightly. She sweats, licking her dry lips, battling her thoughts. It's not worth it, not yet. She doesn't want to see the Joker yet, she wants just a few more hours. To distract herself, she chugs a couple of beers and takes Vriska behind the porta potties. It works for a few hours. She finds herself shirtless, sitting in the grass with Rat, painting what he claimed were American flags on her nipples. She doesn't trust him to keep his word on that, nor does she really care. Charun and Polypa had abandoned them in favor of their own shenanigans, going into the show early to chat up their vendor buddies. When he switches over to her other breast, he pinches it a little, and she instinctively slaps at the side of his head. He laughs, and continues his painting with a manic giggle.

      Boredom. Dragonfly is so incredibly, mind-numbingly _bored._ Her fingers twitch for the one thing she knows she shouldn't have. Anything else is fair game, but she doesn't want anything else. Nothing is fun anymore. Nothing feels good. Is it really so horrible to just want to feel _good?_ What is she even holding out for now, anyways? It's not like she has to worry about disappointing Aradia or The Bee Guy anymore. The Joker's already done the worst he can to her. Thoughts of having to hear the Joker's smokey voice again keep her rooted to the ground. Unless... Before she can say anything, Vriska asks, "So where's your  girlfriend? She finally kick the bucket?" 

      "Yeah. Couple days ago, back in New Jersey. She went too hard. Maybe I should have made her slow down, but she was having a good time and she never had too many of those. I'm glad she died doin' what she loves - a whole lotta drugs." He announces the last part with a victorious laugh, and gives both the girls high-fives. Dragonfly returns it, though now she has guilt for having forgotten about Raccoon mixed in with all the other shit. With the masterpieces on her nipples complete, she drapes her tank top around her neck and leans against her backpack.

      "Sorry to hear that, I guess. I mean I don't really care, I only met her once and to be honest I don't really care about either of you. But that's gotta suck, losing someone you love like that." Vriska ties up her long mess of dark, tight curls, wiping away the sweat on the back of her neck.

      "Yeah. I guess it could have been worse, at least I knew it was coming. It mighta been better for her if _she_ didn't know she was gonna die, but I can't imagine just up and suddenly losing her, you know? That's goddamn traumatic." Vriska starts to say something, but Dragonfly runs over her words. If she wasn't over the edge already, this conversation kicked her ass over the precipice.

      "Do you know anywhere to get dope, Rat?"

      "Obviously." He jumps to his feet, seemingly just as glad to avoid talking about Raccoon.

      Dragonfly's heart beats a little faster with anticipation. Since she's been sober for so long, it felt amazing that first time in the random gas station bathroom. Even though Dave and Karkat practically beat the door down to drag her out, yelling in her face. It didn't even bother her. Spiraling had never felt better, in fact. Her pre-high high bubble bursts when their little group comes to a stop and she hears that goddamn voice that haunts her nightmares. "Sup, Ratty boy, what's shakin'?" Instantly, she feels herself shutting down. They chat a little, his eyes molesting her until he can't take it anymore. He roughly takes her by the elbow, pulling her away from the others, and she lets him. "You like that little treat I left for you?" 

      "Sure. Got anymore?" Her voice is flat and bland.

      "Course I do, baby. Pretty cheap this time, too." 

      "Whatever." He leads her over a ways, until she hears the familiar sound of the clunky van door rolling open. 

      He speaks, pushing her hair behind her ears, kissing the corners of her mouth. Murmured apologies, sprinkled in with degrading comments. When she doesn't respond, he grabs her throat roughly and throws her onto the seat. The cracked vinyl pokes into the same spots on her back as they always did. He demands she apologize to him, and without know what for, she does. She closes her eyes until it's over. It's so hot, she feels like she's drowning in her own sweat. He stuffs a good amount in the front pocket of her backpack, and tells her to do it somewhere else, then leaves her, exposed and alone. Despite the heat and her still-damp nipples, she puts her shirt back on.

      Back in the light of the sun, diverting away from him, Rat and Vriska, she breathes a sigh of relief. It's easy, now. She doesn't have to hustle to find money, strain herself trying to come up with ways to pay. In fact, she's _glad_ that the Joker has taken a liking to her, that he prefers her body over her money. It's so much easier to simply check out and let him do whatever he wants than to scheme ways to scrape up as much dope as she can. It makes things so much easier. 

      Since when did relief feel so heavy?

      For the rest of the day, she sits on the front steps of the city hall across the street from the stadium along with everyone else who couldn't get in. She leans against the stone railing, drooling and nodding and swaying in her seat. At least she had the mind to ration it. For now, anyways. She probably won't be able to do that for much longer. But she isn't thinking about that now. 

      Fireworks explode over the stadium, and the crowd beneath them goes wild. In an attempt to stand, she accidentally kicks someone on the step below her. She apologizes, blind to the glare the girl sends over her shoulder. She tries to stand again, and this time, the girl whirls around, an insult dying on her tongue. "Dragonfly, is that you?" She asks, first excitedly, and then in confusion as Dragonfly struggles to her feet.

      "Who the hell...?" She sits heavily again, groping the air with her hands.

      "It's Jade, John's sister, remember?" The two hadn't ever really been close, but were lab partners in ninth grade. They had almost been friends, but Dragonfly dropped out not too long after that. The two rarely crossed paths except at random parties and drum circles and excursions downtown. Dragonfly slips down beside Jade, bumping against her while trying to pull her backpack onto her lap. 

      Jade lets her, idly running her fingers through Bec's fur. Even though the sun has long since left the sky, the large dog pants in the summer heat. Her empty pockets burn holes in her skin, so she bends over her knee. A loop of hemp string is tied around her big toe, and she weaves it into a swirling pattern. At least she was lucky enough to have gotten free beads and stones from the various friends she's made so far. From her purse, she pulls out a teardrop-shaped turquoise and ties it into the necklace.

      "You're not lookin' so hot, girlie. What's goin' on?" Jade asks. Dragonfly moans, sloppily struggling with her bag.

      "The universe is out to get me. _God_ fucking _hates_ me," she seethes, glaring at the air in front of her.

      "Oh, honey. It might feel like that, but everything happens exactly as it's supposed to, I promise. And even if there was a god-"

      "I believe there's a God," a man interrupts. His khaki shorts nearly reveal his butt cheeks, and his palm tree button up is open to reveal an astonishingly hairy chest. On his arm are rings of flower crowns with ribbons and glitter dripping off of them. "In many ways, the universe and God are very much the same thing, though, aren't they?" He hands down a small pamphlet stapled together, smiling amiably. 

      "Not really," Jade says, accepting the book and setting it in her lap without looking. She continues with her necklace as she talks. "God is very... human. He's a figment of the human mind. Which is beautiful, don't get me wrong. That humans have the imagination to come up with these wonderfully complex stories and to believe in them with all their hearts - it's _beautiful._ But very self-centered. We think that we're similar to some kind of omnipotent, all-powerful being, we take false comfort in the thought that there's someone out there looking out for us. And not only that, but we believe that this being has just _told_ us the answers to everything? That it's as simple as following the rules in a book?"

      "Well, why not? He wants us to succeed." Jade scrunches her mouth in skepticism.

      "He's an asshole is what he is. A selfish dickface." Dragonfly still struggles to keep her backpack from sliding off her lap. They both ignore her.

      "I don't believe that. I think that the bible was written to get people to be obedient, and nothing more. It's very pretentious for humans to think that we can _ever_ know the answers to the whole universe and life itself. When we're microscopically, infinitesimally tiny, the size of atoms compared to the universe - how can we even begin to comprehend the truth? It's so far outside of our abilities to understand. We never will. That's why I don't particularly care for religion. It's nice to hold onto, nice to have something to guide your life, give you purpose. But it's simply not real, and you _know_ it's not real because we can understand it." She shrugs.

      "It's obviously not the whole story, then. God - or even Allah, or whoever you believe in - gave us the short version. The instructions are written in a language we can understand-" Jade bursts into laughter at that, then covers her mouth.

      "Sorry, I don't mean to be disrespectful. But it's literally _not_ written in any language anyone can understand. That's part of the problem."

      "Okay, then, what _do_ you believe in?" He sits beside her, turning his knees to face her. A small smile plays on his lips, and he listens with patient interest. Jade twists her mouth again, humming as she thinks.

      "I believe in myself. I believe in nature. I believe in the universe. But not a universe that feels any particular way about us. That's also a very human thing to do, personify the _universe."_ She smiles. "I think that everyone is a universe. If that person believes in God, then by all means, in their reality, there's a God. If someone only believes what's right in front of them then that's all they'll ever know, all that's ever going to be true. The mind is extremely powerful and it builds reality for that person, so I suppose I believe in that, too. Personally, my spirituality is more... simplistic, I suppose. I think of it every time I look at the stars." They both look at the sky above them, but all the stars are drowned out from the light of the city around them, speckled with bursts of red and blue. Dragonfly stares at the ground with the ghost of a glare on her brows, her bag at her feet.

      "And wonder how it got here in the first place. That goes against everything we know about physics, that doesn't fit into our narrative of what reality _is._ How could something be created out of absolutely _nothing?_ It's incomprehensible. I feel my spirituality every time I sit by a river, and I look at the flowers and trees and the grass. They all started from tiny little seeds, and over time, a whole bunch of cells merged together to create something beautiful. Church for me is looking through a microscope at all the moving parts of the machine that makes up a single living cell. And it all has _purpose._ Everything works together, helps each other, uses each other. It's a piece of artwork. It's beautiful, and it's impossible - it quite literally _should not_ exist, but it _does -_ which is far more magical to me than everything being intellectually constructed for some kind of grand purpose. There's purpose in a star suspended in empty space with no planets orbiting it, there's purpose in a plant that quickly dies but fertilizes those around it, there's purpose in the cell that does nothing but simply exist. Existence itself is purpose, without there being some big plan or design behind it. That's enough for me." 

      "But how did it all begin? Why was it created in the first place?"

      "Like I said, we'll never know the answer. Whatever it is, it's bigger than God. It's more than just what happens after we die. It's bigger than us, the stars, and far bigger than the entire universe. Or perhaps it just _is._ Maybe the nature of reality is that... something _can_ become of nothing. And from nothing emerged a reality that negated it's very existence. Whatever it is, we'll never know. It's beyond us. Fun to think about, but whoever thinks they know the answer is wrong." The man nods, looking at her thoughtfully.

      "That's sad. I always feel that I have a silent protector, someone watching me and guiding me and cheering me on. You must be lonely, thinking you're out here all on your own with no one on your side. Aren't you?" Jade shrugs.

      "Not really. I value my privacy. And I have friends that keep me company." She grins, and he nods, examining her.

      "Well, it's a very wise philosophy to live by. Did you come up with that on your own?"

      "I didn't just, like, make it up. It's just what I see. It's what's right in front of us." 

      "And with the help of some psychedelics, I presume?" He winks and nudges her playfully.

      "I've never tried them, actually. Maybe I will someday, but it's just never come up. Just not the right time, I guess." The man nods, flicking his eyes over her face in calculation.

      "I'm Jake." He offers a hand, grinning toothily.

      "Jade, pleasure to meet you." She shakes his hand, and smiles back. 

      "Would you like a flower crown? I made them with my grandma." He holds up his arm.

      "I don't have any money, sorry. They're very lovely, though." He slides one off and sets it on the top of her bandana covering her thick, wild hair. She's trying to grow dreadlocks and is in the awkward phase where it just looks like she doesn't take care of herself. Couple that with the bushes growing under her arms and the black hair curling up her calves, some would say she's let herself go. But she's never cared what other people think.

      "You look like you could use a little pick me up. A little forlorn, are you?" Jade sighs, rubbing a thumb over Bec's ear. He rests his chin on her thigh, his eyes slipping closed.

      "I'm just a little lost, is all. Not quite sure what I'm doing, where I'm going. I don't want the adventure to be over, but... I don't know that there's anything left of it."

      “Oh, there's _always_ more adventure. Me and my friends have got just the place for you." He smiles charmingly and offers a hand to help her to her feet. "You sell jewelry?" He asks, nodding at the necklace in her hand as she stands. She nods, tucking it into her purse and slipping on her sandals. "We can help you sell it. We have many people who would love to help a blossoming entrepreneur." They both look down at Dragonfly. 

      "Hey, are you alright here on your own?" Jade puts a gentle hand on her shoulder, and Dragonfly looks up, staring just past her. "Do you need me to call someone? Who did you come here with?" She only shakes her head, slumping over her legs. Jade stands and shrugs. If nothing else, this journey has taught her that you can't make other people your responsibility. It might sound cruel, but she can't afford to take on the burden of caring about and for everyone she meets. Not anymore, not here.

      With their arms interlocked, Jake and Jade weave through the crowd to the parking lot closest to the stadium. Right in the thick of it, there's a replication of the Further bus with a band of people hanging out the windows, blasting music and playing with laser pointers. The price Jade has to pay for a ride back to their own little hippie commune - free board, free meals, free showers, paid with chores - is a stack of thin, colorful newspapers to hand out. 

      It's doing this, shoving the fliers into random hands and chatting with the others headed to California, that she sees John. They embrace in a messy circle, squealing and laughing. With what little money he has left, John buys one of his sister's necklaces, tying the itchy choker around his throat in pride. She invites him to embark on this new adventure with her, and hands him half her stack of fliers when he agrees. At the end of the night, when everyone is climbing onto the bus to head out west, he sends a quick text to Karkat informing him not to wait up.

      No one notices that neither of the siblings are seen around Lot anymore. No one thinks to call or check up; they're adults, they can take care of themselves. It's not until the very end of the summer that their absences are questioned. And by then, it's too late.

 

      Lake Michigan spans out in front of Dave and Karkat like an ocean, cool water sprinkling them with every breaking wave. They're only two in a large crowd pressing against them to watch the colorful show in the sky, thundering around them and leaving their ears ringing between each explosion. Despite the lights that draw awed gasps from those around him, Dave's gaze is drawn to Karkat's face. In the shadows, he looks contemplative and somber; his default countenance. Dave used to think it was anger, but he sees the anxiety that simmers below. It looks much like his own. And when Karkat's face is bathed in blue or red, all of his features highlighted in surrealism, Dave's drunken heart swells in its cage. 

      When it's over and the sky calms down, the mass of people leaves them in a private moment. Dave turns his back on the railing, wiping the light mist of water from his face. He stares at the distant city skyline as he takes a swig of vodka. The burn down his throat only stokes the flames of emotion, and he takes another drink in the hope that he'll forget what it is. To keep his thoughts from drifting where they don't belong, he talks to Karkat. About nothing in particular, about the poem he's been working on in his shabby notebook with the giant coffee stain, about how happy he is to have someone to spend the Fourth of July with. He knows that his tendency of saying anything and everything that comes to mind - a habit that's exaggerated when he's under the influence - is obnoxious, but he also knows that Karkat appreciates what he has to say anyways. 

      He blinks and suddenly he's on the ground with his side pressed against Karkat's and three hands in his lap. Suddenly he doesn't much care. It's dark, and no one is wandering over this way. Karkat's palm is warm between both of his. He reaches over and rests his other hand on Dave's arm, sending a thrill of warmth through him. In his pause, Karkat lovingly says, "Can you please shut the fuck up for a second? I'd like to say something." 

      "Sure, dude, go for it. I love hearing you say things." He smiles, and Dave smiles back.

      "So... we both, like... we're both-" He hesitates, thinking of what Dave had said in Philly. Since then, he's been looking at Karkat in a certain way. Even if he's smiling, once his eyes land on him, his face lights up. And sometimes he'll just stare, smiling, as if lost in Karkat's presence, completely unashamed. He looks at him that way now, in undeniable adoration. Undeniable even to Karkat, whose self-esteem is smaller than a tab of acid and just as horribly powerful. He knows now isn't the best time, when Dave's hammered and he himself is a little buzzed. But it's easier to have these vulnerable conversations when the walls have been loosened by some kind of substance, for both of them. He takes a deep breath. "It's not really a secret that we're both into each other, right?" Dave freezes, slowly retracting his hands.  

      "What do you mean? Who else knows? Did you tell people we're a thing?"

      "No, Dave. I just meant, between me and you. I mean, every time you're high or drunk or spun, you... you know." Dave looks at him, face scrunched in confusion, still with his hands in mid-air surrender. Karkat pulls away and scoots over an inch, growing a little more uncertain.

      "What?"

      "The touching, the flirting, the compliments, the grinning. You don't act like that around anyone else. And you said- and I thought that meant- I just want to know, do you actually have feelings for me, or am I wildly misinterpreting things?" Dave looks down at the alcohol, gripping it with both hands. Something wiggles in the back of his mind to hold back, to walk away, to shut the fuck up before the dam breaks and he says something he'll hate himself for. But  _he_ won't hate himself, that disgust comes from somewhere else, so he activates Fuck It Mode.

      "Alright, listen Karkat. Are you listening?" He leans close, looking at him intensely through the haze in his eyes. Karkt nods, turning towards him as well. "I'm going to chug this vodka, because I ain't drunk enough to confess my feelings yet. But I want to. Because you know what? You goddamn deserve it." With a finger pointed in Karkat's face, without breaking eye contact, Dave does as he promised and dumps the drink down his throat. He'd keep going, but Karkat pulls it from his lips when there's only a few sips left.

      "Alright, that's enough, I don't want to have to take you to the hospital to get your stomach pumped because you're a loser that can't express his feelings." Dave laughs, falling to the side. Then he straightens and rubs his hands together, getting ready to excitedly tell a story he's been bursting to share.  

      "Totally, completely fucking transparent here, okay? You're the raddest dude I've ever got met before, you get that? The _raddest._ And I wish... I wish I could tell you that. I wish I could tell you a lot of stuff. It's easier to acknowledge my feelings when I'm... anything. I don't feel so bad about them, or don't even think of them at all. Except with you." He swings his grin towards Karkat. "It's just the present moment, you know? That's why I..." Instead of saying it out loud, he holds Karkat's hand in the air. Then he rests it on his knee and splays out the fingers, tracing the outline of them. He stares at them, his smile slowly dissolving into something sadder. "It seems so simple right now. I want to hold your hand, so I hold it. It's simple. With you, it's always simple. There's no fuckin'... what's he gonna do next? How can I make him like me? When's he gonna realize I'm a shitty asshole and abandon me? Worrying if I've said too much, if I revealed something I shouldn't have, worrying about keeping my cool. There ain't none of that shit, Karkat, cause I _know_ you aren't out to get me. I _know_ you like me, and you actually know me. Like, you _know_ me. And _that's_ the part that you like." He laughs lightly in disbelief.

      "Believe me, I'm shocked, too," Karkat says, smiling. Dave bites his lip and giggles.

      "But it's not like that when I'm sober, it's... there's all this shit. That I'm being a creep, that I'm just desperate, that I'm fucked up and gross and wrong. If I try to think about it or feel it or God forbid fuckin' _express_ any of it, it's like the end of the goddamn world or somethin'. Like red fuckin' alert, all the little Daves runnin' around my noggin' just-" He waves his hands around his head, clenching his teeth hard. He lets them fall back to Karkat's hand with a heavy sigh. "It's from my dad, I guess. I mean, I don't know, probably. That's what Rose says, anyways." 

      "Was he homophobic?"

      "Yeah. He was racist and sexist, everything you can think of. Top tier asshole. He beat the shit out of me if I even complimented a guy for- for literally _anything._ I wasn't allowed to talk about, look at, or even fucking _think_ about guys unless it was to talk shit about them. It was like he fucking knew. He looked in my eyes and he just... fucking... _knew._ And he fucking hated me for it." Karkat rests a hand on Dave's forearm. That look crosses his face again. He closes his eyes, his brows furrowed and a sad smile on his lips. Like it's something he's needed for a long time, and he's savoring it like he'll never have it again.

      "I used to fantasize about guys, sometimes," he whispers, looking away in shame. "I think... I think that's why I couldn't get it up with Dragonfly. And have just been generally uninterested in dating. But I just never let myself even consider for a single moment I might be... But you're different. Whenever you're around I just get all scared and angry and panicky. Er, I used to. Maybe that's why I was such an asshole to you. I'm sorry for that. I'm really sorry, Karkat, I said so much shit to you in high school. I'm sorry," he blubbers a few more apologies, burying his face in Karkat's shoulder. Surprised, Karkat gently shushes him, running his fingers up and down his arm, chanting that it's okay. "Shit, Karkat, no matter what I say when I'm sober, I am _really_ into you." Dave pulls away, wiping his nose on his shoulder. He looks out across the expanse of grass and loitering pedestrians, talking to with glazed eyes.

      "Honestly, I never fully relax unless you're around. I didn't even realize how high-strung I was until suddenly whenever you walked in the room, I felt my shoulders drop. You make me feel safe, and everything you do, the way you roll your eyes, and get all sappy about everything. Your clothes are always so baggy, and you treat everybody the same, whether they live in a mansion or the gutter. It makes me feel..." He rubs a circle on his chest and looks over at Karkat's shining eyes. He grins and leans in closer, encouraged by the expression. "Whenever I'm stressed or down, I think of you. Just... you. Imagine you sitting on the couch, reading. Making faces, mumbling to yourself. Going on rants about the characters and the poor writing, and how much you loved it anyways. Whenever I have a hard time falling asleep, which is every night, by the way, that elusive fucker, I imagine you all snuggled into my side-" He stops short, leaning away and laughing uncomfortably. "Sorry, I don't want to cross any lines or make you feel weird. It's just... the whole situation is kind of hard for me. It's confusing." He starts to pull his hand away, then stops himself. For once, he allows his vulnerability to hang from his face, free even of his glasses. 

      After a pause where Karkat takes a slow, deep breath, blinking away the tears in his eyes, he says, "Would it be easier if we, maybe just, _tried_ it out? We can go really slow, and talk through things. Only touch as much as you want. It'll just be between you and me. We don't have to tell anybody anything about our relationship, it's none of their business anyways, and it doesn't have to be any certain away. We can make it whatever _we_ want it to be, just for us. And if you decide it's not for you, whether because it's me or because you're not into guys or whatever... then... at least we tried, right? I really think it's worth the risk." They look at each other with searching eyes.

      "Yeah. Yeah, I like that idea. Just between me and you. Slow." Karkat grins, his head filling with elation. Whatever this is, it's something he's never felt before, and he's scared of putting a name on it just yet. But he's excited to explore it.

      "We'll make sure to get permission with sober you in the morning-" Karkat stops himself as Dave's grin slips from his face. He leans to the other side, and spills his guts all over the sidewalk. How romantic.  

      Just as the last chord of the song reverberates through the crowd and an exhausted John Mayer says, "Thank you for coming, see you at the next one," Karkat jerks the station wagon to a stop in front of the courthouse, directly across from the stadium. Karkat yells for Dragonfly, slumped over herself a few feet away, and she climbs into the passenger seat.

      "Great, I've got a passed out drunk in the back, and now you on god fucking knows what." Dave moans from the back, still burping after having vomited on and off for the last twenty minutes. "Don't you fucking dare puke in my car, asshole, we live in here." 

      Luckily, Dave had given him the address of some place where they can stay before he had taken a single sip of alcohol. Because Karkat's ability to see into the future is impeccable and he saw this coming the moment that random chick handed Dave a free half-empty bottle of vodka. At least it wasn't laced with something. Dave said it was an empty lot in the middle of some neighborhood, that only the coolest people know about it. It sounds sketchy, but Karkat is still a little high - and tipsy - from their emotionally charged conversation to be too worried. He'll find the closest Walmart in a relatively safe-looking neighborhood if this empty lot turns out to be more trouble than it's worth. 

      As he attempts to merge onto the highway, he's met with venue workers in neon yellow vests who pull barricades in front of the car. Vehicles pile up behind him, honking and yelling out their windows. The two workers stand around looking bored, and he glances over at the perfectly good ramp leading to a perfectly fine busy highway. "What are we waiting for?" Dragonfly asks. 

      Karkat pokes his head out the window and waves over one of the guys. "What are we waiting for, exactly?" One of the venue workers jogs over and leans into the window, wiping the sweat dripping off his chin.

      "Don't know, man, just doin' what I'm told." Casually, he rests his weary head on the window, and Karkat leans away in distaste.

      "By _who?"_ Before he can answer, the car directly behind them suddenly revs up its engine. It veers to the right, and slams on the gas. The other worker, vulnerable in the middle of the road, jumps out of the way, shouting. The one at the window swears loudly, taking a few steps back. The barricade sticks to the guy's front as he speeds, weaving, onto the highway, taking it with him. The entire line of cars zoom out after him, knocking the other one into the middle of the street. The one who almost got hit yells after them, and tries to stand in their way to keep them from escaping, but is only met with honks and shouts to get the fuck out of the way. Until Karkat is the only one left, his jaw slack in the sudden quiet. The guy leans into the window again, watching as his coworker bounces around on his feet in fury, screaming into his radio. 

      "Yeah, uh... you should just go, dude," he says, and then takes a step back as his coworker storms towards them. "Go, man! Go, go!" 

      "Go, Karkat, what the fuck!" Dragonfly complains, and in a panic, Karkat slams on the gas. The whole car bumps as they roll over an edge of the barricade, and then they're safely on the highway. It's busy, a mixture of concert, holiday and regular city traffic. Various explosions burst around him, the sky lighting up with fireworks. The main ones over the stadium are over, but it seems like Chicago takes their independence very seriously. While Karkat should have been terrified, this time around, it's a thrill. With every startle he gets from each burst in the sky, the excitement builds in his chest. In elation, he realizes he's finally having fun.

      The GPS takes them to a house in a neighborhood on a dirt road. Beside it is a lot fit for several houses, but it doesn't seem like there's ever been a house on it. There are already a few other cars parked, some people sitting around in lawn chairs circling a fire in a barrel. Karkat parks as far from them as possible, and turns the car off. He takes a deep breath, and after a moment of calming his heart rate, he says, "The Bee Guy gave us his tent. You can sleep in it if you want, or up front here. Can't lean the seats back too far because the seats in the back, but-"

      "I'll take the tent." Dragonfly revels in the chance to be alone, just her, her pipe, and the rest of the Joker's gracious present.

      Dave is curled into himself, snoring, with the tent cradled in his arms. When Karkat tries to pry it out of his grasp, he growls and waves his hand in the air to shoo him away. Karkat grabs a pillow and slowly pushes it into his arms to replace the tent, then throws it at Dragonfly’s feet, along with the air mattress and pump. She leans against the side of the car in exhaustion as Karkat sets it up, grumbling at the goat heads that stick to the bottom of his pants and prick his fingertips. He shoves the pump into the mattress then guides Dragonfly’s hand to the off switch. She can manage that much, can't she? She nods and crawls into the tent. Karkat throws in a light blanket and a small pillow. 

      Then he sighs, looking down at Dave in his uncomfortable fetal position, chewing on his smile. There's only one pillow left, the regular sized one. He climbs in, keeping the back open, and shoves the pillow underneath Dave’s head. Then he twists around into a semi-comfortable position with his jacket splayed over top of him. It's almost a little chilly now that the sun has abandoned the sky.

      Crickets scream over the sound of passing traffic, interrupted by the crackling of yet more fireworks. The other inhabitants of the field shoot a few of their own, and Karkat watches the colorful blooms sporadically burst in the sky, letting his mind sift through his thoughts on its own. At this rate, he'll never get to sleep, but he's used to that by now. His stiff back is a testament to their many sleepless nights on surfaces of varying degrees of discomfort. Dave mumbles something, his voice muffled. “What?” Karkat turns his ear to him to hear better, and he repeats himself. “I can’t hear you, moron.” 

      “Cuddle me!” He whines loudly, throwing his hand out to grapple in Karkat’s direction. His fingers brush Karkat’s and he pulls on them. Karkat abides, scooting over and turning onto his side. He yanks the pillow a little farther out from Dave’s head to rest his own on it. With his nose buried in Dave’s hair, he wraps an arm around him and tucks his legs behind his knees. Dave hums happily and pushes the pillow in his arms away from him in offense, replacing it with Karkat’s arm. He tucks their knot of interlocked hands under his chin. Despite the noisy celebrations, the ache in his back and the hard object digging into his side, it's easier for Karkat to fall asleep than it has been since they first left Florida.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is near and dear to my heart because it was in Chicago on the fourth of July a few years ago that I came up with this story.


	17. Till The Morning Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving, y'all :) I'm thankful for everyone that's left a kudos or comment!!

[ _Till the morning comes, it'll do you fine_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_F74P39b0Q4)

_Till the morning comes, like a highway sign_

_Showing you the way, leaving no doubt_

_Of the way on in or the way back out_

 

_Tell you what I'll do, I'll watch out for you_

_You're my woman now, make yourself easy_

_Make yourself easy, make yourself easy_

 

_Till we all fall down, it'll do you fine_

_Don't think about what you left behind_

_The way you came or the way you go_

_Let your tracks be lost in the dark and snow_

 

_Tell you what I'll do, I'll watch out for you_

_You're my woman now, make yourself easy_

_Make yourself easy, make yourself easy_

 

_When the shadows grow, it'll do you fine_

_When the cold winds blow, it'll ease your mind_

_The shapes it takes could be yours to choose_

_What you may win, what you may lose_

 

_Tell you what I'll do, I'll watch out for you_

_You're my woman now, make yourself easy_

_Make yourself easy, make yourself easy_

 

Denver, CO

 

      Bathed in the graceful rays of the early sun, Karkat is delicately roused by the sweet melody of a stranger dumping the entire contents of his stomach on the front of the car. He bolts upright, and with a voice still hoarse from sleep, shouts, "Hey, you stupid fuck for brains, what the fuck do you think you're doing?" The guy spits on the hood before wiping his mouth and stumbling away, middle finger in the air. "Fucking unbelievable. Animals. They're fucking feral, are you seein' this shit?" Dave turns onto his back, swallowing his own retort along with the bile rising up his throat. He would agree if his own digestive tract wasn't also threatening to befoul the car in which they sleep. 

      Karkat continues to rant and rave as he sets up their lawn chairs. He turns just in time to see Dave puke out the back, his shoulders hunched in misery. A little catches on the bumper, dripping gently into the grass. He digs into the cooler full of melted ice for a water bottle, rinses his mouth and spits into the puddle of last night's vodka and chicken burrito.

      "There are two shows in Denver tomorrow night, you want to just take it easy today and head out tomorrow?" 

      "No," Dave says immediately.

      "We can just go to the second one-"

      "No," he says again, wearily, heaving himself out of the car. He drops into a chair with the expression of a warrior sitting down for the first time after battle. "We ain't gonna miss a single show. It's the _last_ tour, man. And you'll really like Colorado. Just give me an aspirin and some IHop and I'll be good as new." He nurses his water bottle, slumped down in the chair with a dirty t-shirt wrapped around his head to block the sun from his eyes. "Who in the goddamn hell keeps stealing my sunglasses?" 

      Their neighbor comes over with a few solo cups of coffee as an apology for her boyfriend's vomit on the front of their tires. After chatting with her for a bit, Dave is desperate to get back on the road. And food. Absolutely _desperate_ for food. Dragonfly has yet to emerge from her cave, so Karkat stomps over and yells an obnoxious, "Knock knock, wake up sunshine, it's time to hit the road." There's the sound of the sleeping bag wisping across her legs, and she slowly unzips the tent. Her hair is greasy, deep bags drooping under her eyes, and her mouth is twisted into something unpleasant. "You look goddamn awful. We can haggle a trucker for some shower coins after we eat, you smell like garbage." He crouches and starts balling up the blanket. Dragonfly smacks him away.

      "I'm not coming."

      "What, why? Where else would you go?" He reaches again for her pillow. Again, she assaults him with a series of slaps, but not before he glimpses the pipe and the empty baggies.

      "You smoked heroin in my fucking tent?" Karkat can't keep the disgust out of his voice. He sees it slap Dragonfly across the face, but she looks away, masking it with indifference.

      "Well, obviously she was going to get high, Karkat. That's what junkies do, what did you expect?" Dave calls over his shoulder. Karkat sighs and stands back to let her climb out, but she stays firmly on the ground.

      "Vriska's going to pick me up, so you can just leave me here. I already told her where I am, she knows where it's at. Can I keep the tent?" 

      "I'm not going to just leave you in a random ass field in a sketchy neighborhood full of vomit and addicts based on the hope that some other drug-fueled loser will even remember who you are. Let's at least meet her halfway." Dragonfly grins wryly.

      "But I fit right in here. These are my people. I can't abandon my kingdom in a time of need." She holds her arms out, basking in the hubris of her community. He stares at her, his face blank but his eyes critical. She lets her arms drop with a sigh. "I don't want to bring you guys down. You're having your own romantic escapades, you don't have to babysit a pathetic junkie anymore. I can take care of myself."

      He jolts at those words, flustered at the prospect. "There are no romantic escapades, you don't know what you're talking about."

      "Oh, but Karkat!" Her eyes twinkle with mischief, her voice loud enough for the next few cars over to hear. "I _know_ you guys are fucking, I can smell the horny between you. It's overwhelming, frankly." His eyes dart towards Dave. From his pathetic, sagged position in his chair, only the top of his head is visible. Dragonfly continues, "Hey! That means all three of us have all had sex with each other. We should have a threesome, who's in?" 

 _"Absolutely_ not happening. What's not happening, you ask? This conversation, let alone even the entertainment of those kinds of thoughts-"

      "Oh, you find it entertaining, do you?"

      "No, nope, aborting conversation. It has been successfully aborted, look at that! All bloody and not-sentient, barely the size of a peanut with how unexplored it is, and look how severely _wretched_ it looks. Disgusting-"

      "Come on, Karkat, you used to be so experimental in bed. Remember that time we-"

      "We are _not_ discussing this! Everybody can shut the fuck up right now!" He throws his hands in the air, screeching nonsense to cover up her words. "Stop distracting me from the _actual_ conversation at hand. You? Meeting your hag of a friend somewhere safely? Yeah, let's get back to that." Dragonfly pouts, glaring, then crawls out. She stretches a bit, casually meandering towards Dave's chair. She stops just behind him and rests her arms on the back of the chair, pokes at the top of his head.

      "But I guess having a boring ole snooze in the bedroom works for you, old man, with your dysfunction-"

      "Okay! Okay, we get it, we'll leave you here to get HIV with the rats of your fucking kingdom or whatever. I will _literally_ pay you to stop talking." Dave's chastisement is slightly muffled underneath his t-shirt.

      "Give me twenty bucks and my lips are sealed." He shoves his hand blindly into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. He takes out a twenty and holds it above his head, accidentally smacking Dragonfly in the face. She smacks him back and tucks the money into her back pocket as she drags her feet back to the tent, zipping herself inside.

      "So that's it? We're just going to leave her? With our fucking tent?" Dave shrugs.

      "Yeah, man, what else are we gonna do? She's an adult, she can do what she wants. Let's just blow this popsicle stand already, I need a sink bath." He finally takes the shirt off his face, and avoids eye contact as they collect the chairs. 

      Climbing into the car, Karkat says, "You're never going to get that twenty back." 

      "Never would have dreamed of it." 

      They decide to go down to the Starbucks a few blocks away to wash up. Doing his morning routine in random bathrooms of questionable hygienic states had bothered Karkat at first, leaving him feeling even worse than before he had entered the bathroom. But after a month of once-a-week showers and scrubbing at his armpits with a paper towel, he's gotten used to constantly smelling like sweat. There's only one bathroom, so the two of them file inside, and the first thing Dave does is mark the rim of the sink with his tag, extra neat this time now that he knows he has a following. As if he was the only one there, he takes his sweet time scrubbing his hair, teeth, and various crevices.

      "Are you almost done, princess? I'd like to wash the stink off of me, too, thanks." Dave stands aside, sniffing the armpits of his t-shirt as Karkat takes his place in front of the sink. 

      He strips his shirt off as well and lets it fall to the floor, then digs through his travel toiletry bag to find his shampoo and conditioner. He has to move the few products that Dave himself shoved into it, their shared toothpaste and deodorant. As he sticks his head under the faucet, closing his eyes and breathing shallowly against the germs of hundreds of strangers stuck to the ceramic basin, he asks, "What was Dragonfly talking about, dysfunction?" Dave sucks a breath in through his teeth, taking a second to answer.

      "Yeahh I may have told her I have erectile dysfunction, and that's why I couldn't get it up when we were goin' at it. It was easier than telling her that, you know, I wasn't attracted to her. And I don't know why cause she's objectively bangin'. Or she was, at least. She's been lookin' kinda off since she started smokin' dope, she's all boney now. She'll probably lose some teeth soon. Junkies, am I right?" Karkat rubs the soap into his hair.

      "You _still_ can't figure out why you weren't attracted to her?" Dave snorts, turning his head to hide his discomfort. "You shouldn't call her that. She's a person before she's a junkie. A person with a problem, who needs help."

      "Help don't do nothin' for people like her. She'll just keep goin' until she can't anymore, whatever that means. Seen it a hundred times, trust me. Tale as old as time." Karkat shakes his head, splattering water everywhere, and watches Dave in the mirror through streamlets running down his face.

      "Maybe you do have erectile dysfunction. Have you been to a doctor?" 

      "Nah. But I am perfectly functional, don't worry." Karkat raises a brow, and Dave winks.

      Dave. Also shirtless, and also staring at him. Karkat's eyes flick down his torso, and when they come back to his face, Dave is beaming at him. 

      "What the fuck are _you_ staring at?" His grin widens, and Karkat turns towards him with crossed arms, demanding, _"What?"_ Dave takes a step forward, still with that cheeky grin, and puts his hands on Karkat's hips. His face heats up, and he swallows at the sudden contact. "What are you-" And then he kisses him. Aggressively. Dave pushes him against the sink and takes dominance, hardly giving him a chance to breathe. Karkat finally puts a hand on his chest and pushes him back a step. Dave bites his lip in a repressed grin. "What... the _fuck..._ goes on in your head?" Immediately, his face falls, and he shoves his hands into his armpits in defense. "No, no, no, I-"

      "Nah, it's cool, I get it-" 

      "No, you really don't-"

      "Just forget I did that. Please."

      "I will not! Listen to me-"

      "Seriously. Forget it." He turns to leave, and Karkat yanks on the waistband of his pants. 

      "Do _not_ fucking walk away from me. You can't just do something like that and refuse to talk about it. We're going to have this conversation whether you like or not. Now or later, but it's going to happen." Dave turns back around, leaning on the door casually. His face is set in an angry stoicism, and he averts his eyes. But he's not pulling away or leaving, so Karkat barrels on. "I was just surprised. You've always been so weird and wishy-washy about touching and the 'gay thing.' And last we talked, I thought we had decided to take it slow. And aggressively making out shirtless in the bathroom is not exactly how I would define 'taking it slow.' Not that I _mind,_ I was just... surprised." Dave's shoulders are tense, and he refuses to meet his gaze.

      "I don't know," he says softly. "I just... wanted to. So I did. Can we not have this conversation right this second? I promise we'll talk about it later, just not right now. Please?" He finally meets his eyes, pleadingly, and Karkat nods. 

      After a cheap but thorough car wash, they take on the brunt of the drive to Denver. While awkward at first, they quickly dissolve into their usual banter. Dave juggles a bottle of water, a cup of black gas station coffee, and a can of beer. This means he has to piss every twenty minutes, but he had luckily been collecting empty water bottles that he could fill with hot, steaming urine and then throw out the window. Karkat also found it funny until he forgot to put the cap on before tossing one out. He had only gotten pee on the side of the car and his own hand, but was chewed out nonetheless, and from then on was told to hold it. As fun as a roadtrip between friends/almost lovers is, being in such a confined space for such a long time can drive anyone crazy.

      "Dave! For the last fucking time, keep your hairy goddamn feet off of my dashboard!"

      "Dude, your car is already a piece of shit. A little bit of dirt ain't gonna hurt nothin'. You can just wipe it off anyways, look." He lifts a sock up from the floor with his toes and swipes away a smudge on the plastic. 

      "It's about _respect_ . I'm asking you to respect a piece of my property, and you're deliberately ignoring me. How would you like it if I defiled _your_ car?"

      "I wouldn't give a shit. Cause it's not a big deal."

      "You're just saying that because you've never owned a vehicle."

      "You're right. O, woe is me, for I have never had the pleasure of a loving parent passing down their junky tin can so that they finally have an excuse to get a nicer, newer car." 

      "Hey, this isn't just a useless piece of rust on wheels, okay? It's practically a family heirloom, a dear older sibling." Dave snorts.

      "Shit, the only family heirloom I ever got was a punch in the stomach. Passed down through generations, a classic Strider tradition." He punches the air and mimics the way his dad would lick his teeth after punching him, lift his head up to glare down at him. Then he laughs. Karkat frowns, chewing on his lip, and Dave wishes he didn't always turn conversations about his dad into something to be sad about.

      "You really need to meet my family," Karkat says eventually, turning the radio down. He still has to yell to be heard over the wind and the loud rattling of the car, but it's easier. Dave knows it's how he sets the tone for one of his serious talks, always formal and straight-forward and blunt.

      "Wow, that serious already, huh? When's the wedding? Which one of us is gonna wear the dress?" He winks and licks his lips in a comical show of seduction. Keep it light and maybe he'll move on. Of course, it's Karkat he's talking to, how could he forget?

      "I just think you could really use a nice, stable family. Some positive adult influence. How have you lived your whole life with no one nagging at you to be home by a certain time? From now on your curfew is midnight, is that clear, young man?" Dave chuckles, and Karkat smiles sadly. 

      There's an awkward lapse, where they both consider the moment they had in the Starbucks bathroom earlier that morning. Karkat glances at Dave's hand dangling from the middle console. He presses his lips together, giving Dave room to talk about it when he's comfortable. It takes every ounce of self-control to not blurt out all of this thoughts and feelings and demand his travel partner do the same. It's all about patience. Dave is different, he needs the space to talk about these things on his own terms. Whenever that may be. Karkat bites his lip to keep himself from messing everything up, but to his surprise, Dave speaks.

      "So, like, I know I can be pretty impulsive sometimes. It might actually be kind of a problem."

      "Kind of?" Karkat side-eyes him, and Dave chuckles.

      "Yeah, maybe. Anyways, um... this morning, yeah, like I said, I just kind of impulsively..." He waves a hand around, manually pulling the words he's searching for out of the air. He lets it drop and grits his teeth in frustration, wondering why it's so hard to simply verbalize his thoughts.

      "It's okay, you know. To kiss me. You remember the conversation we had in Chicago, right? When you were drunk?" Dave nods. "I mean, is that still... you know, okay with you?" Dave turns his face towards the side window, shifting so Karkat can't see his face. It frustrates Karkat that Dave feels so much but tries so hard to close himself off. Patience, he reminds himself. It's all about patience.

      Finally, Dave says, "Yeah. It's okay. I've never felt this way before and it feels too good to just throw it away because I'm afraid of it. Which I am. Just so you know." Karkat nods, the knot of irritation loosening.

      "Yeah, me too. On both accounts. Just between us, right?" 

      "Yeah, I think so. For now. It's nice just with us, and people would just ruin it."

      "I mean, I don't think people are really as homophobic as you think. Some of them, definitely. But especially in this crowd-"

      "Oh no, they're definitely homophobic. My buddy thinks that being gay is wrong because the two divine spirits of the universe are made of feminine and masculine energy. It's only through the sexual and emotional union of man and woman that a person can reach balance, and anything else is unnatural and harmful to your soul. Off-brand homophobia is definitely a thing around here. Dirk's openly gay, and he gets in fights over it just about every summer. I mean he barely gets a fuckin' scratch and beats the shit out of them every time cause he's a badass motherfucker, but my point still stands." 

      "Oh. I didn't know that." Karkat deflates a little, and Dave hums in response. He wiggles his toes, uncomfortable and unsure of this newly defined relationship.

      "Sorry for putting my feet on the dash. I just like to piss you off, but you're right, it's disrespectful." He scrounges around until he finds a fast food bag and pulls out a napkin. He makes a genuine effort to scrub the dashboard, and even wipes the dust off the dials and around the gear shift. Karkat thanks him, and Dave resumes his casual but tense position, hand dangling from the console, slightly turned away. After a moment, he asks, "So just to clear things up, it _is_ okay to touch you, right?"

      "Yes, it's okay to touch me."

      "Okay. In what ways, exactly?" Karkat shrugs.

      "You can hold my hand, or kiss me, hug me. I don't know, however you feel like touching me. And if I don't want you to touch me in a certain way, I'll tell you."

      "Okay, got it." Karkat laughs through his nose a little. He doesn't think he's ever met someone who needs more clearly defined boundaries than him, and yet is so awkward about it. Endearment swells in his chest.

      "Can I touch _you?"_

      "Oh yeah. _Hell_ yeah. Dude you can literally touch me in anyway you want to." Karkat smiles and reaches for Dave's hand, smoothing his thumb over his knuckles softly. Dave turns his hand over and interlocks their fingers. It's a sweet moment that sends a surge of delirium straight to Karkat's head, making him a little dizzy. 

      "Do you wanna have sex?" Startled, Karkat takes a moment to process the question.

      "What, right now?"

      "Yeah."

      "On the side of the road?"

      "Yeah." Karkat laughs incredulously. His high from only moments ago degrades into confusion.

      "Uh, no, not... really? That just seems a little..." 

      "Yeah, too soon, too soon. I get it, just checkin' in." All at once, he releases their hands and throws himself against Karkat's side, kissing him harshly. They swerve, and someone honks as they go by. Karkat sputters, gripping the wheel tightly when Dave releases him.

      "That- that is _not_ cool! Don't do that again! Christ. You are so fucking _weird,_  you know that? I don't think I'll ever figure you out." Dave laughs harder than is necessary, but he can't seem to keep the giddiness at bay.

      "You already know me better than anyone, babe."

      It's easy to lapse into their usual playfulness, laced with tints of vulnerability and uncertainty. Each small moment of eye contact sends them both into fits of shy laughter and delirious grinning. Every casual kiss at gas pumps and every brief caress while driving sends spikes of hormones straight through their brains. Like teenagers holding hands for the first time, their palms sweat. They find a piece of BLM land on the border of Utah and Colorado, where the hard packed earth is a deep red and the mountains have flat tops. They park far away from the road, even though they hadn't seen a single other car for at least a hundred miles. Alone and undistracted, their bodies find each other, pulled together like magnets. With the back open to the star-filled sky, they fumble out of their clothes and touch each other with shaky, hesitant hands and barely-restrained grins.

 

      In Denver, they hit up a dispensary. With their fingers sticky from special-made brownies, they playfully flip sandwiches, twirling around each other as they hand them out to all the usual customers. Dirk hands them a pair of pre-paid tickets and wishes them a good time. As they stroll towards the stadium, Karkat tugs on Dave's wrist, pushing towards an easy up with shirts fluttering in the breeze. "Is that...?" 

      Since their intimate experience the previous night, you would have needed a crowbar to pry them apart. As subtly and as casually as possible, they tried to constantly be in contact. Small brushes of their fingers, standing a bit too close but not _too_ too close. It's in this manner that they stand in front of a sign that says "Lot Shitter" with a sloppy rendition of Dave's tag. A line of stickers and buttons with the logo is spread across the table, and their old friend Cirava greets them. Briefly, Dave considers demanding a cut of the earnings, since he's the artist behind it all. Instead, he buys several stickers, and Karkat buys him a button. 

      They walk into the concert laughing, carefree. Nothing clouds their minds except the other's smile, and the music. After his "sobriety" break, Dave takes a couple tabs and dances circles around Karkat. Though they're still careful about touching, they can't keep the affection from their gazes or their voices, the mere melody of their existences singing sweetly to one another. It's one of the best days of their separate lives. Some things are just too good to be true. Most things, in fact.

      Karkat isn't sure exactly how it happened. A couple gave them their wrist bands, and they were able to get into the pit, where it's dark and damp and confusing. Hidden by strobing lights, they clamp their hands together and slip between bodies. There, everything except the music is completely suppressed. Even with Karkat's loud voice, yelling right in Dave's ear, his words are immediately pulled apart by the bass and John Mayer's singing. They danced, and in the flood of unrecognizable faces, they kissed and they locked their arms around one another. 

      At some point, he can't be sure when - everything in the pit seems to happen simultaneously, all of it before you know it's happening at all - him and Dave had been forced apart. Still, their fingers clung to each other, even as their faces were hidden. If lost anywhere else, at least their hands could steady each other. A man pressed against Karkat, his chest in his face, pushing him further away. Still, he clung to Dave's hand, pushing back against the stranger. He looked up with a sneer, and the man looked down with a grin.

      "You need this, man! Everyone needs this! It cures the soul!" His mouth says this, though his voice is lost. Karkat instinctively knows what he means.

      Before he can react, he finds himself rubbing at his eyes with both hands. They were stinging, and there was a distinct tickle in the back of his throat. The man pats him on the back in a half-hug as he moves to the next person, forcing a small vial into their face as well. Disoriented, mute against the swell of sound, Karkat shoves past people in what he hopes is the direction they entered. Never in his life has he been more confused and lost. People push him back, knock him out of the way, and he struggles against the waves until he finally breaks the surface. The narrow aisles of the dark arena are like a maze. He has no idea where he's going, he just wants to get away. He needs to get away, he needs to get out, _escape._ He needs to escape. At the top of the theater seats is the lawn, a bubble of fresh air. 

      He collapses almost immediately, crashing to the ground on his back, staring up at the softly darkening sky. Beneath him, he feels the force of the earth hurtling through empty space, swaying like a ship. And above him, wide, fat clouds glide on fading sunshine like dust, smearing into each other. He lifts his head, swivels it slowly to look around at all the people surrounding him as if he had just stepped into another dimension. Grins are scattered across every face he sees, blurring into the colors silhouetting them. Immense joy bounces between their limbs as they dance, unencumbered by humility. The music rises from the ground, heavy in his chest, and lifts high above their heads, light and sporadic. Karkat can only take a deep breath, feel it reach the very bottom of his belly, and watch it dent the air as it drifts past his lips. He lets his head drop again.

      His mind races to catch up with the shifting reality around him, to slow the whirlpooling clouds swallowing the sky whole. He closes his eyes, breathes, repeats his mantras. _I'm okay. I'm lying on the ground. Nothing is happening to me. I'm okay, it's just a concert. I'm okay._ As he tries to convince his mind and his body that there is no immediate danger, he realizes with a sudden clarity, like a voice from outside of him, loud in his head, screaming over everything else: 

_Everything is exactly as it should be._

      Despite the mess of the situation he finds himself in, lost and confused and alone, the usual anxiety that would send him spiralling into a panic attack simply unravels. There are no responsibilities he is neglecting, no one waiting to yell at him for being late or doing something wrong. A giant clock isn't ticking away the hours he's wasting by not doing something "productive," by not working for money, working for better grades, working towards a career. He's not operating on anyone else's time but his own. Him and Dave might not have much, but there's money in case of an emergency, food if they get hungry. For once, Karkat considers the possibility of bringing his awareness away from the future, and sticking it in the now. More than just noticing what's going on around him - truly, his entire consciousness, soul and being, is focused on what is happening right now. 

      If something does go wrong, he realizes, he can simply figure it out. There are people watching his back; Dave will find him, even if he does nothing but lie here blinking up at the purple ceiling, so far away. There's something freeing in how high up the sky is; it's not low and suffocating like the roof of a house. There are people protecting him, too, like Dirk and his crew. They've all known each other for years, practically their whole lives. 

      Just like that, suddenly, from somewhere outside of him, it all clicks into place - his obsessive preparation is _holding him back._ He _wastes_ so much of his time preparing and worrying, jumping through mental hoops so he knows how to handle every possible situation that may arise. It's a lost cause; he will _never_ be able to predict what happens next. But that's okay, because he doesn't have to. He's capable of figuring it out as things come up. The seed of solidity that had formed inside of him all those months ago germinates, reaching throughout his stomach and easing his nerves, taking root in the soles of his feet. 

      He sits up, opening his eyes to an entirely new world. One that isn't full of dark secrets to shield himself against or scary monsters waiting to pounce from between the lines. It's okay to not have everything planned to the very last detail. It's okay to make mistakes, to put off thinking about tomorrow until tomorrow. This moment as it is right now, is fine. Everything is okay. Every particle of negativity evaporates into the bass and bobs away, leaving him with indescribable peace. With all his worries suddenly gone, he feels so light, he'd float away if someone were to breathe on him too hard. 

      With the next song, beginning with a single, long strum of the guitar, the crowd screams, and as the music plays, their dancing becomes more chaotic. It builds in Karkat's chest as he watches everyone around him. No one dances the same way, the movements of their bodies as unique as fingerprints. They close their eyes, painting their fingers against the air, following a rhythm only they can feel. 

      He stands, and he briefly feels that familiar tug, reminding him he doesn't know what to do with his hands, he's awkward and clumsy, he's a bad dancer. Instead of obeying the worn-out inclination, instead of trying to figure out what way to contort his body so as not to offend other people, he closes his eyes, letting his ears and his heart listen to the music rather than his mind. He forgets about other people; their gazes don't penetrate him, their judgements bounce away.

      For the very first time in his life, he dances. 

      He dances for himself, for the beautiful world surrounding him, for this single moment of contracting muscles and bare feet, and he dances for whatever strange, beautiful thing he's found in the boy that appeared in front of him covered in blood. It's ugly and awkward, with uncoordinated flailing limbs and a lot of stumbling around. Waves of music and energy wrap around him, spin him in circles. All he has to do is swim with the waves, easy as breathing. He moves with it, a partnered dance, ignoring the people he bumps into and grinning at the people that fall into his stream for a few moments before drifting back into their own. The strings of vibration lift his arms above his head, and the magnetic pull of the earth on his feet bring him down, only to jump back up again. 

      As people walk by, they shimmy a little, pleased with his enthusiasm. One of these people gives him a sticker, dancing all the way, and another slips him a starburst. Both of them look him in the eye knowingly, as if to acknowledge that he's one of them. He pockets these sacred gifts very gently. Others watch him, smiling, and he wants to pull them to their feet and tell them to _dance,_ to open their eyes and then close them and move their bodies because to truly dance is the most beautiful gift the universe has ever given him.

      Never has he felt so free of shackles, so open to the whims of the universe. So like himself. And he never will again, because he doesn't need it. Only one unique experience fueled by drug induced euphoria will be necessary to fracture the [hard] prison of ego and free him of himself. His anxiety doesn't disappear, but he is no longer oppressed by the illusion that it is in control, and it no longer consumes every surface of his life. No single moment can be replicated, or experienced the same way between any two people. To truly have them means to pay attention. Because everything changes so frequently, it can be comforting to take temporary roots in an instant, in a mere second. To become intimate with the sensation of the body, the atmosphere of the environment. It will never come again, and memory is a very poor replacement. 

      This is the feeling he carries with him through the whole rest of the concert. His clothes stick to his skin with sweat, his muscles are drowsy, his face aches with the force of his grin. As the drums play, clouds blot out the moon and the stars, and Karkat collapses again to the ground. Breathing hard, he stares at the same sky that has always been there as if for the first time. It starts to drizzle, but before he can even blink the raindrops away, a familiar face takes up his vision, haloed in a soft white light. He sits up, and Dave grips his shoulders tightly. He speaks, but Karkat can only wave his hand through the glow around his head, the way it illuminates his features and smooths them. 

      "Wow, I never realized how _beautiful_ you are," he says in amazement, cupping Dave's cheeks in his hands. He speaks again, and this time Karkat tries to listen, but the words melt into the surface of reality and dribble along unnoticed. "You're good, Dave, did you know that? I don't think you know that, which is... flabbergasting. I look at other people," just to make sure, Karkat swings around to look at the closest person. Sure enough, they are bland and flat. Looking back at Dave, he smooths his hands down his neck and over his shoulders, feeling the glow of light buzz on his skin. "You're really _good._ Up here," he taps a gentle finger on Dave's forehead. "And here, too." He moves it down to his chest. Dave responds, then crushes Karkat to him. 

      The rain picks up, and people start covering themselves, finding shelter. Others turn their faces and their hands towards the sky, dancing even harder. Because their stand is still set up, and Dave knows that Karkat wouldn't like getting his car getting soaking wet, he lifts them both to their feet. 

      Someone had flipped the tarp up and stolen a loaf of bread. While Dave tries to remember how everything is supposed to be organized, the rain picking up even more, Karkat simply stands there, marveling at the world around him, the drops of water caught in his eyelashes. Dave tries to encourage him, to prompt him to help. But he only smiles and pets Dave's arms, admiring his "glow." Dave laughs and finally guides him to the passenger side of the car, closes the door on him so he doesn't get even more wet. The force of the rain blurs everything else around him, the wind that digs into him is sharp and cold. Waves of people splash through the ankle-deep water, huddling beneath easyups and piling into cars. With only the table and grill left, a cop with his lights flashing sidles up behind him. 

      Over their intercom system, the cops blare, "You need to leave the premises immediately. There has been a flash flood warning. If you do not leave, there _will_ be consequences." Dave turns towards them, throwing his hands up in the air. He tries to yell over the roar of rain, but they turn on their sirens. 

      As Dave and a small group of others berate the cops, Karkat twists around to watch. Slowly, with the peak of his high winding down, the enlightening clarity starts to fade. In its place is the crushing weight of all his fears and negativity slamming back into their usual places inside his body. Pair that with the presence of the police and the abrupt chaos of the natural world outside, and he suddenly grows genuinely afraid. He's now just as distraught as he was euphoric moments ago. Dave finally throws in the table and the grill, and slams the back. Once safely inside, he scoops his drenched hair out of his face, and rubs his hands up and down his arms.

      "Fuck. I fucking _hate_ cops." The lights and sirens still wash over the lot. Slowly, they move down the aisle, chastising as they go along. "Where are the car keys?" 

      Karkat is slow to respond. "I can't drive, there's no way-"

      "I'm not asking you to drive, I'm asking you where the car keys are."

      "I don't have them." Dave looks at him with an indiscernible expression. Karkat blinks back at him in confusion. 

      "Yes, you do. Check your pockets." Karkat does as he's told, and pulls out the keys in triumph. Just as he starts to hand them over, he pulls back.

      "Wait. _You_ can't drive."

      "What, why? Karkat, come on, they're coming back." The parking lot had emptied quicker than he's ever seen. Only vendors remain, rushing to pack their livelihoods into boxes while a car full of pigs screams at them. Karkat holds the keys to his chest, looking uncertain. "Dude, come on, I'm not joking around. We need to get out of here, like, _now."_ Karkat shakes his head.

      "You're tripping, and it's raining really hard. We need to find someone else."

      "There _is_ no one else, man. It's just us, and we need to-" A sharp blast from the cops cuts him off. It blares on, too loud to even speak over, drowning out their own threats. Dave grunts angrily and yanks the keys from Karkat's fingers. Even as the car starts up, headlights on, the cop car doesn't move from their position behind them. They turn off the sirens to remind everyone to leave or they _will_ be arrested. Dave is forced to roll the window down and shove half his body out into the freezing rain, waving for them to get the fuck out of the way. After a few more degrading waves, they finally inch down the aisle again to yell at the others. 

      And he's left, tripping, his leg twitching from the force of his own muscle-clenching, in pouring rain, a foot of water, and concert traffic in the middle of a city. This is not the first time he's found himself in such a scenario. Although he doesn't like to, a lot of the time, someone has to drive while under the influence of one thing or another. It takes a lot of concentration, staring hard at the nearly invisible lines on the road in the rain. As they inch out onto the highway, bumper to bumper, he misjudges distance, and accidentally bumps into the car in front of him. He was barely even idling - there wouldn't be even a scratch on either of their vehicles - but it makes a loud bang of metal on metal. Luckily, because of the chaos, the driver doesn't get out, yell, flip him off, or even react, as far as Dave can tell. 

      Karkat, however, _does_ react. He starts hyperventilating, gripping at the door and the handle on the roof, trying to wiggle out of his mortal skin. For all his patience, at the moment, Dave can't handle one of his tantrums or panic attacks. He snaps, "Would you cut that shit out? Stop being such a pussy and man up already. I get you're anxious or whatever, but just this once, could you be cool? I've got it under control, it's fine. Just chill." Karkat instantly withdraws, crossing his arms tightly, and deflating into himself. He clamps his eyes shut hard, bowing his head, trying to pretend he's anywhere but there. 

      So many times Dave had said similar words. "I get you're anxious bro, but it's fine, the D-man has it under control. Just chill." They were gentle then. These were harsh and ugly. They hurt even Dave's feelings. Before he can think more of it, they're zooming down the highway. It's not an easy drive, but Dave manages to maintain the speed limit, change lanes without crashing into anyone; it's a shock even to him. At the first sign for a rest area, he pulls in, out of the way of a glaring street lamp. 

      They sit in stony silence. "You can go back home or whatever if you want. I can hitch a ride with someone else, don't matter to me." Karkat says nothing. Dave throws the keys in his lap and slams the car door as he leaves, disappearing into the bathroom. Even when he comes back with drinks for both of them, Karkat doesn't move. He feels paralyzed as he sits there, the adrenaline and panic attack still coursing through his veins, the roller coaster of emotions still bubbling inside him. They sit there for a long time, neither of them willing to speak, and neither of them close to going to sleep anytime soon. 

      This is it, Dave knows this is it. He finally crossed a line. And now Karkat's going to leave him, and just when Dave had let himself take a risk. It's blown up in his face, he opened himself up to someone who immediately is going to throw him aside. Which is fine, he deserves it, it was foolish to ever think otherwise, it's better he get over it now. And yet, still, something tugs at him that... maybe this time it's different. He quickly squashes the small niggling of pathetic, stupid _hope._ Since when has that done anything for him but hurt? It hurts already. It hurts that he could have hurt Karkat's feelings. It hurts that he's going to leave him. The silence hurts worst of all.

      "What do you want to do?" Dave blurts angrily, startling Karkat. He continues, a little less aggressively, "Do you want to stay, I mean? I know you've only been forcing yourself to stay on the road because of me. Don't let me hold you back."

      Calmly, Karkat says, "I don't know. I can't think about it right now. Or anything. I don't even know what happened to me." Dave softens, remembering that Karkat had been drugged without his consent. He doesn't show this, but rather slumps in his seat, shivering. At least the heat works. Sort of. Outside the windshield, the two of them watch the wind strip a tree of its leaves in an attempt to yank the roots from the earth. 

      "Why are you _mad_ at me?" Karkat asks quietly, turning towards him. He doesn't answer, or move. "You know I don't have experience doing like... any of this shit. That's the point. But it's reckless and honestly terrifying to be in the vehicle with someone who's probably seeing the road make literally absolutely no sense. I couldn't drive off of even one tab, and I get that you're more experienced than me, but it's still dangerous, I can't help but get anxious. You didn't have to call me a pussy, I already insult myself enough for both of us." He sounds more tired than anything else. Dave doesn't say anything, then mumbles. "What? I can't hear you over the sound of my own brain." 

      "I said I'm not mad at you." He's still as a statue, glaring at the tree.

      "Then... what are you?" He doesn't answer, and Karkat sighs angrily. "Whatever. Doesn't even matter-"

      "I'm mad at myself," he grates out, and Karkat falls quiet. "For saying that to you. I was stressed. You're right, it was a stressful situation, and I just... I couldn't concentrate and calm you down at the same time. So I just said something to shut you up." He doesn't mention that he knew it would work because that's what he was told so often growing up. It always shut _him_ up good. "I'm sorry. I don't... I don't want to hurt you. And I don't want you to hate me. I was an asshole, you were tripping, like, _really_ fucking hard, and you didn't even know it was going to happen. I know you like to be prepared - and there's nothing wrong with that - and it sucks that your control was taken away from you. I'm sorry that happened to you." Remembering seeing Karkat from a distance, dancing, then collapsing onto the ground in ecstasy, Dave can't help but smile a little. Remembering his awed words, asserting that Dave is _good._ Normally, he'd stop it there, he wouldn't push any further, wouldn't bother trying to repair their obviously broken relationship. But, realistically, he would have stopped a _long_ time ago. "You handled it real well, though. You were really gettin' into it. It wasn't all bad, right?" From the corner of his eye, he sees Karkat deflate in relief.

      "No, it wasn't. It was... an experience. I think... I think it was life-changing." Dave turns. Karkat's gaze is far away, and he chews on his lip in contemplation. But he doesn't offer an explanation, and Dave doesn't think he's privy to that kind of information anymore.  

      This is so stupid. It's beyond stupid. It's pathetic and it makes Dave hate himself. He realizes with a surge of fury that his arms are itching to wrap around Karkat's shoulders, his skin thirsts to drink in his warmth and solidity. An ache rings throughout his chest as he realizes he will never, ever feel that again. That it will be a _very_ long time until he gets the chance to hold someone for as long as he wants, until there's someone he wants to hold at all. It might never happen again. He knew it would happen eventually, and he knew it would hurt. But god, it hurts. It hurts like hell. It shouldn't hurt like that. It's his fault for wanting it so bad. He stares hard at the trees ahead, rearranging himself to stuff these new feelings behind other ones, into corners that he'll never look at. New walls are formed, ones that say _I never liked him anyways, he's just a hot piece of meat that's all, I just thought I owed him something for letting me stay on his couch._

      And because he's a desperate fool, he can't stop his mouth from asking, "Are we okay?" 

      Karkat smiles tightly. "Yeah, we're good." But he turns his back to him, curling into himself and resting his cheek on his knee. Dave similarly turns away, and for hours, as their busy minds trip over their thoughts, they watch the tree dance in the wind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are so close to the end. I'm excited for the next couple chapters, they're some of my favorite.


	18. Throwing Stones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honorable mention of the song I almost used for this chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sBua6awzByg  
> Throwing Stones is honestly such an amazing song, though. If at no other point you listen to any of this music, please, at least look at the lyrics for this one. But it's also iconic so you should definitely listen to it too :)

[ _Picture a bright blue ball just spinning, spinning free_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NFSSqCxXpGg)

_Dizzy with eternity_

_Paint with a skin of sky, brush in some clouds and sea_

_Call it home for you and me_

_A peaceful place or so it looks from space_

_A closer look reveals the human race_

_Full of hope, full of grace, is the human face_

_But afraid, we may our home to waste_

_There's a fear down here we can't forget_

_It hasn't got a name just yet_

_Always awake, always around_

_Singing ashes to ashes all fall down_

 

_Now watch as the ball revolves and the nighttime calls_

_And again the hunt begins and again the bloodwind calls_

_By and by again, the morning sun will rise_

_But the darkness never goes from some men's eyes_

_It strolls the sidewalks and it rolls the streets_

_Stalking turf, dividing up meat_

_Nightmare spook, piece of heat_

_You and me, you and me_

_Click, flashbade in ghetto night_

_Rudie's looking for a fight_

_Rat cat alley roll them bones_

_Need that cash to feed that jones_

_And the politicians throwing stones_

_Singing ashes to ashes, all fall down_

 

_Commissars and pin-striped bosses roll the dice_

_Any way they fall guess who gets to pay the price_

_Money green or proletarian gray_

_Selling guns instead of food today_

_So the kids they dance, they shake their bones_

_While the politicians throwing stones_

_Singing ashes to ashes, all fall down_

 

_Heartless powers try to tell us what to think_

_If the spirit's sleeping, then the flesh is ink_

_History's page, it is thusly carved in stone_

_The future's here, we are it, we are on our own_

_If the game is lost then we're all the same_

_No one left to place or take the blame_

_We will leave this place an empty stone_

_Or this shining ball of blue we can call our home_

_So the kids they dace, they shake their bones_

_While the politicians are throwing stones_

_Singing, "Ashes to ashes, all fall down."_

 

_Shipping powders back and forth_

_Singing, "Black does south while white comes north."_

_And the whole world full of petty wars_

_Singing, "I got mine and you got yours."_

_And the current fashions set the pace_

_Lose your step, fall out of grace_

_And the radical he rant and rage_

_Singing,"Someone got to turn the page."_

_And the rich man in his summer home_

_Singing, "Just leave well enough alone."_

 

_But his pants are down, his cover's blown_

_And the politicians are throwing stones_

_So the kids they dance, they shake their bones_

_Cause it's all too clear we're on our own_

_Picture a bright blue ball just spinning, spinning free_

_It's dizzying, the possibilities_

_Ashes to ashes, all fall down_

 

Houston, TX

 

      "Come on, brother. This is how we do it. Thumb prints is how we've always done, right, boys? It's good for the _soul,"_ the Joker sings, his face shiny with sweat underneath the yellow glow of the RV lights. The back of Bull's neck flushes with the attention from everyone around him, expectantly watching for his next move. It's a situation he's found himself in many times; the Joker pressuring him to do something, everyone pretending there's no wrong answer. He tells himself he's grateful for the Joker's negging, that without it he would never do anything outside of his comfort zone. He _needs_ someone around to push him. Just this one time, however, he really wishes they would leave him alone. 

      To demonstrate, the Joker licks his thumb and sticks it inside a sandwich bag filled with white dust. It's the same bag Bull had clutched in his fist in that dark parking lot in New Jersey, now almost empty. With the memory comes a surge of adrenaline, but he reminds himself that the guy deserved it. He was one of the bad guys. Unlike the Joker, and Marvus and Kurloz. They've helped him learn how to work the streets and make money all on his own. And Meulin, obviously, and the twins. They can't be bad guys if they have kids, a family. The Joker sucks on his thumb, grinning, and passes the bag to Kurloz. They each go around, sucking on their thumbs, and then it's back in Bull's shaky hands. He sets it on the table, hoping no one notices that he doesn't do his own.

      The Joker's grin still stands, but a shadow passes over his eyes as his gaze follows Bull's hands, placing the bag on the table. He roughly reaches over to force Bull's thumb into his mouth, and presses it into the bag. Bull stares at it in apprehension. 

      "Do it. You'll have a mighty fine time, I promise ya. And look, that's hundreds of hits right there, you can't waste 'em or you'll owe. Big time. More than ya already do. So eat up, motherfucker!" He holds up a beer bottle, and everyone raises their own in celebration. Bull considers wiping it on the seat while no one is looking, but they'd figure it out, they always do. Somehow, they always know. Maybe he just isn't that good at being sneaky. Yet another reason he needs them, he thinks. It quickly dissolves on his tongue, tasteless. Almost instantly, he feels the familiar buzz of energy in his veins, intense and incessant. 

      The RV shrinks around him, and the smoke curdling the air chokes his lungs. As he often has been lately, he thinks back to what Karkat had told him. He'd never take him up on the offer, of course - that'd be betrayal, and he doesn't want to end up on the other end of a dusting. Seeing how the guy had frothed at the mouth and clawed at his throat while begging for someone to kill him was enough to keep Bull in line. But it's nice to dream, to imagine Karkat and Dave on either side of him, patting his back and getting him an oreo McFlurry on their drive back home. He still gets homesick sometimes, but the Joker says that's normal. 

      His thoughts are interrupted by a stack of small sheets thrown onto the table in front of him. "Your turn to scope out the scene, little buddy. Told folks you were the face of the operation today." Bull stands, relieved to be given permission to leave, and pockets the acid. He doesn't have to do much when it comes to selling this stuff; people approach him and all he has to do is exchange some paper. "And hit up the usuals while you're out, yeah?" The Joker throws a bag of smaller baggies filled with various forms of powders and crystals. These, too, Bull shoves into his pants, then he throws himself out of the vehicle. 

      The sharp afternoon light pricks his eyes painfully, the noise of Shakedown crowding his mind. Paranoia turns hundreds of faces towards him, grasping for his pockets, whispering about some deal or another, drugs in exchange for favors. Bull's still bad at haggling, despite the Joker's lessons, but his fear of his boss outweighs his fear of saying no. But most people don't even bother, knowing who he works for; everyone else is just as afraid. He stares at the dirty asphalt and walks fast so no one will stop him. Despite himself, despite the consequences - there are eyes everywhere, the Joker _will_ know - he finds himself searching for Karkat. But he can't, he can't do that, he knows he can’t do that. But there's nowhere else to go. There's no one to run to that won't laugh in his face, spit on him, tell him to man up, shove powders and liquids down his throat. There's nowhere to go. He's trapped in a crowd of hostile strangers, he can't breathe -

      "Hey, you got anything I want, kid?" He whirls at the hand on his arm. Dragonfly looks up at him with her blank eyes and sagging mouth. 

      "What, uh... what do you... want?" 

      "Rocks. Black tar, white china. Whatever."

      "Um, well, I'm not supposed to. Give it to you, I mean. Anything." Her charming smile looks grim and desperate. He backs a few steps away, but her hand on his arm tightens, and she closes the distance between them again.

      "You sure you can't sneak me somethin'? I'll pay you double so you can just pocket some for yourself. Growin' boy like you needs some extra cash in his pockets, yeah?" He gently pries his arm away, edging to a break in the crowd. She follows.

      "Do you know where, uh, where Karkat is?" He hopes to distract her, but immediately regrets it; he can see all of the eyes and ears drinking in his traitorous words. It's only a matter of moments before it swells to a burst and collapses around him. He bends over his knees, watching his pulse dance in his eyelids. Even when he closes his eyes, the constant movement doesn't stop. He takes a deep breath to keep the nausea at bay.

      "What's wrong with you? Did the Joker do something to you?" Dragonfly gently pokes at his leg with her cane, and he shakes his head.

      "No. Um. I'm just... tripping much harder than I would like to be. I also have got a lot of drugs in my pockets. Which does not ease my mind. At all."

      "Well, I know a way you could lighten the load." She nudges him playfully, and he straightens, slowly shaking his head. Her smile disappears. "Alright, well, where is the Joker? Could you take me to him?”

      "Um, well, I - I don't... He's busy..." His eyes dart around, his feet inching backwards.

      "Hey, kid, what's the matter, for real?" He turns and lurches away, out of the crowd, and she follows. His chest heaves with his breathing, until he finds a clear spot of asphalt. Amid the trash, the spilled beer, the weeks-old rotting discarded carton of fries, with a group of people close enough to kick him in the head - he lies on the ground, struggling with a world that refuses to slow down.

      Dragonfly says more, he thinks. He's distracted by the clouds, the branches of the tree in the edge of his vision. It's better than watching TV, and easier to process than anything else at the moment. He clings to the visuals, tensed and still as he watches the drama unfold until they eventually, after a long time, begin to disappear. 

      As they fade, so too does the sky, until he realizes all of the lights in the sky were turned off without him noticing. Only an almost-fun moon hangs above his head. Organic feeling fills his limbs again, the hard concrete underneath him, and the sticky air against his skin. Slowly, he sits up, blinking away the last of the all-consuming hallucinations. The peak had come and gone without him, hours upon hours of lost time. And he is _still_ exhaustingly high. At least he can move again, and hold onto his thoughts to some degree. Dragonfly is still beside him, sitting cross-legged on the ground. She's talking to someone, and he follows her words to a man with a bright red mohawk. 

      His eyes are already on him, and then his hand is on him, and then his arms are wrapped around him. Bull hesitantly hugs him back. "You're back, thank god. You were really gone, dude." His brother smiles at him, looking him up and down. Bull can only stare at what must be the ghost of someone he didn’t think he’d see again for a long time. "Are you okay?" He isn't exactly sure what that means, but he knows that it's a question he's supposed to nod to, so he does. "I'm taking you home. Uncle's house is nearby, he said we could stay the rest of the summer if we want. Let's go get your stuff." Rufioh stands, but Bull only stares up at him in confusion.

      "I can't leave." Rufioh mirrors his puzzlement.

      "What do you mean?" He isn't sure, but he knows that he knew at one point that it's not as easy as just leaving.

      "Because the Joker gets pissed when someone takes away his toys," Dragonfly says. The two look at her, surprised she's still there. "Or whatever the saying is. He won't stop looking for Bull until he knows _exactly_ why he left, until he looks him right in the eye and tells him _exactly_ what he knows will make him feel like a piece of shit. He'll twist words and events to make it seem like Bull fucked him over, that he owes them something. He'll get everyone on Lot to harass him and there will be people around town looking to beat his ass everywhere he goes. The Joker doesn't like it when he's not in total control."

      "Well... but he still has a choice. He can't just... abduct him. He's a minor. We'll get a restraining order, and-"

      "Yeah, right. Try waving a piece of paper in his face and see if he gives a shit. He's running a drug ring, Rufioh. Makin' it, right there in their shitty little RV. He's above the law." Rufioh's bronze cheeks darken. 

      "No. He isn't. Just because he thinks he's untouchable doesn't mean he can get away with anything he wants. Come on, we're leaving." He lightly slaps Bull's chest and briskly starts to take off. When he looks over his shoulder and sees his baby brother still sitting on the ground, he throws his hands in the air. Dragonfly slowly gets to her feet, and Bull finally stands, hovering around her nervously.

      "I can't leave. I have all this stuff," he dips his hands into his pockets and starts to pull out the bags of drugs. At the sound of the plastic, Dragonfly whips her hand out to stop him, and Rufioh lunges to cover him.

      "Jesus fucking _Christ_ , this isn't a fucking joke, this is serious shit. This could get you in jail for the rest of your life, do you realize that? Do you even realize what kind of situation you're in right now?" Bull looks down in shame. He didn't, at first. The Joker was just a cool older friend, who wanted to listen to music with him and hang out with him. The Hippie Hotel was a place of solace when his young life was bleak and boring. It happened without him realizing, until he suddenly found himself looming above a man staring up at him in sheer terror. Regardless, the threat of prison isn't nearly as motivating as the look in the Joker's eyes when Bull tries to say no.

      "What do I do?”

      "What do you want to do?" Dragonfly asks. The question sends a lightning bolt of anxiety through his chest. All his life, he's simply been the victim of circumstance. When they were kicked off the reservation, he didn't get a say in moving to the peninsula state, far wetter than the desert he had grown up in. Does he miss it, the dry air and selling beads on the side of the road? He doesn’t know. 

      "It doesn't matter what he wants, I'm taking him with me. Thanks for watching my little brother, but we're leaving." Rufioh turns again, expecting him to follow, but Bull is paralyzed by indecision. By the question, _what do you want?_ He's never had motivation for anything in his life. When they moved to their new town, his dad had settled into alcoholism, Rufioh into his video games and his new friends. Tavros had been left alone to wander wherever the universe decided he should go. Somehow, he had ended up in that big house on the cul-de-sac where people paid attention to him again, told him he’d be good at things, trusted him with money. Doesn’t that mean something? What does he want?

      "Yeah? Him and all the drugs in his pockets?" At their mention, he can feel them burning a hole in his thighs. For the first time in a while, he thinks about what it was like back home, with his dad and his brother. Lonely, cold, sad, but comfortable. They'd all watch movies together, sometimes, and Rufioh would play card games with him. With the Joker, it was exciting, intoxicating, eye-opening. His little bubble had opened, and the world suddenly looked like a much bigger place. It was terrifying.

      "Well, what do _you_ suggest we do with them?" 

      Bull blurts, "I want to go home." They face him as fat tears streak down his cheeks. "I'm scared." He barrels into Rufioh's chest, smearing snot all over his shirt. Rufioh holds him, stroking his hair. 

      "I'll get you out of this mess, bud. Take me to the Joker, and we'll get this straightened out." Bull pulls away, shaking his head, fear curdling in his stomach. "We'll just go up, give him his money and his drugs, tell him that I'm just visiting so he'll relieve you of his duties or whatever, just for tonight. And then we'll leave, and you never have to see him again." Bull shakes his head again, wiping away his tears.

      "It might get him away now, but he'll still be after him." Rufioh ignores Dragonfly, and urges Bull again to take him to the Joker. 

      Reluctantly, he leads him - Dragonfly on his other side - to the RV. He meets Karkat’s eye as he passes, but turns away. It's strangely silent, devoid of childish laughter and mediocre music. Marvus' chair is tipped over, his guitar on the ground. Through the small window, Bull sees Meulin and the twins sitting at the table inside. He knocks. As she opens the flimsy door, they hear a shout, and they all turn. 

 

      "Oh. Shit." Dave sucks a breath in through his teeth, sinking into his seat. He winces against the bright sun, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose.

      Karkat straightens, searching around for the assumed danger. He wants to ask what's wrong, what happened, but he keeps it to himself. They sit in the middle of a long line of cars, blocked in on all sides. Dave points farther ahead of the line, and Karkat squints, leaning forward. There are cop cars ahead, parked, no lights flashing. Cars are pulled to the side, people standing around them. "What happened, did someone get busted?" 

      "They're doing random car searches." Karkat's stomach immediately twists around itself. Since his impromptu enlightenment, his anxiety has been sharper and even more relentless. No matter how much orange juice Dave forces him to chug, his whole body still feels _off._ Dave turns, looking out the back window and muttering to himself. "Damn, ain't nowhere to turn around either. We just gotta hope they don't pick us, I guess." They have tanks rolling around the back, and Dave still has a couple of sheets tucked deep into his duffel bag, even though he swore a long time ago he wasn't going to sell anything at the Texas show. Sweat drips down Karkat’s sides. 

      "What, um, what are the consequences if they do?" 

      "I don't know, honestly. I know in New York, nitrous is just a misdemeanor and you have to pay a fine. But Texas is hardcore about drugs and shit, so it might even be like a felony. I really don't know." Karkat has to force his lungs to work correctly. They inch closer to the cop cars. 

      "But we can just say it's for the car, right? Like, that's a thing people do, isn't it?" Dave shrugs.

      "I guess. As long as we hide the balloons."

      "Fucking _Bee._ If we get arrested, he's paying my bail."

      "You think you got it bad, I've got a warrant." 

      "For _what?"_

      "Assault or battery or something, I don't really know. There was some asshole picking on a couple kids downtown, so you know, I roughed him up a bit." Karkat runs a stressed hand along his face. 

      "Alright. Okay. This is fine. We just need to look innocent. My car's not covered in stickers, neither of us have dreadlocks or are even wearing tie dye. Stealthy, right?" 

      "Yeah, sure. And when we get in, I'm sure Dirk will take them. Keep ‘em in his car, or take ‘em to his place. We could even turn around and leave them there ourselves, if that would make you feel better. I figured we could stay there tonight, anyways."  

      They continue to inch closer, agonizingly slow. Karkat can feel his intestines gurgling, greasy fast food and stress bubbling in his intestines. His hand shakes when he moves to lower the radio. Uncertainly, Dave reaches out to put a reassuring hand on his knee. Karkat squeezes it, and after a moment too brief for either of them, they separate. 

      They pass the first set of cops. A family, kids running around them, a baby sitting in the dirt eating grass, with clothes and equipment and bins littered around. The woman keeps a steady hand on the man's arm, soothing him as he watches the cops pick through their belongings, clenching his entire body in anger. When they get to the second set of cops, Karkat looks around uneasily. He makes the mistake of making eye contact with one of the women in uniform. He looks away too quickly, shifting in his seat. He sneaks another glance, and watches in horror as she points at their car, turning the other cop's gaze in their direction. 

      Despite his panicked inner monologue, Karkat mutters a somber, "They're coming."

      "Shit, are you fucking serious? God _dammit._ Act normal.” As the woman approaches Karkat's window, Dave pastes on his charming, laid back grin, and twiddles his fingers. "Mornin', officer. What can we do for ya?" His southern accent is buttery and sweet. She looks around in disinterest, thumbs looped into her belt.

      "We're gonna have to do a search-"

      "Are you pulling my fucking balls right now?” Karkat screeches, surprising everyone, including himself. “Are you actually, honest to god _yanking_ on my ballsack? Cause this better be a fucking joke or I’m going to bite my own balls off myself and smack the shit out of someone until you finally leave us the fuck alone.” Dave and the cop both stare at him in shock.

      "Excuse me?" Karkat regrets voicing his fear-fueled lie, but it’s too late to stop now. He twists his face into his best scowl and points at the woman accusingly. 

      "No, you are _not_ fucking excused. We've been waiting in this goddamn line for _hours,_ and you assholes pulled us out of our place to throw all of our shit into the dirt. You picked through all our shit, you _broke_ my fucking _stand._ I make a living off that shit, and now you expect us to do it _again?”_

      "Well, I have to-"

      "No you don't fucking 'have to.' You don't _have_ to do shit! You fuckwads just stand around all day harassing a bunch of people just looking to have a relaxing night based on, what, stereotypes? Everyone that comes through here’s a criminal, is that it? Those guys, dragging around two kids are gonna jeopardize they’re whole family for a lump of chemicals? It’s mean, unnecessary, cruel and quite frankly it’s fucking irritating as shit. We've already been through this degrading bullshit, go ask your fucking friends! Go! We're not gettin' out of this car and going through that again. Go ask those lazy pricks back there, and if they tell you they didn't check us, _then_ you can come back and I _might_ consider obliging you."

      "Sir, I-"

      "We're not doing it, so move the fuck on. We are _not_ doing it again, so help me god." He flashes her a last snarling glare, then crosses his arms and turns away in finality.

      "Yeah, alright, whatever. Sorry for the inconvenience. I guess." She rolls her eyes and moves to the car behind them, knocking on their window. He exhales loudly in relief as Dave turns fully to him.

      "I have never been so attracted to you as I am right now. I have literally got a boner, look."

      "I can't believe I just fucking did that. What if she actually goes back to ask them?" Dave twists around to look out the back window. The car behind them already has its doors open, the angry passengers glaring as they get out. 

      "Nah, we're totally in the clear. That was _legendary,_ dude. You're an honest to god legend. You majorly saved our asses. Probably. That'd be pretty funny if they went through our stuff and didn't even care."

      "Yeah, fucking hilarious." Karkat might not be good at lying, but he’s fantastic at angry outbursts. Despite himself, he smiles.

      Most of the evening is spent around the grilled cheese stand. Dirk comes by to throw the tanks in his friend’s car, because Karkat is a paranoid asshole and Dave is his bitch. Others join the brothers until their group is so large it spills out into the aisle, disrupting traffic. Being on home turf means the Striders are even more popular than usual. Dave tells them about Karkat's amazing performance, and they all laugh and congratulate him. It's the first time many of them have looked Karkat in the eye at all, let alone with actual respect. One of them even breaks out of the group to talk to him, and ends up working the grill as Karkat handles the money. He's almost having fun again.

      As the concert begins, the long line leading to the stand thins, until only a man remains. He tries to chat with Dave as he eats his sandwich, but Dave is uncharacteristically rude, and Dirk stands beside him quietly, almost threateningly. Oblivious, the guy openly asks if they know where to get any L. Neither of the brothers answer; they just glare at him silently, until he continues, "I mean, I heard those guys over there got somethin' somethin'," he nods his chin in the direction of the clowns, directly across from them, as usual. "But I heard yours is better. The Strider brothers, right?" 

      "Nah, man, we don't do that shit. I'd be careful about accusing people around here, though. For your own safety and all." Dave flicks his cigarette butt at the guy's shoes, staring him down icily. He stares back, his hands stuck casually in his pockets. 

      "Alright, thanks for the tip." He smiles and turns around on his heel. Dave glares at his back as he goes. 

      "What the hell was that for?" Karkat asks.

      "That was an undercover cop." 

      "What? How can you tell?" Dave tries to point out the dozens of undercovers crawling around the venue, their shifty eyes and plain clothes. Sunglasses, maybe a hat, too relaxed and content with just looking around, alone. Karkat doesn't see the pattern. 

      "It's something you just learn, I guess. You know, everyone who goes to shows has a special profile in the FBI. I know a couple guys that went to prison, and they were all like, a special case and shit. Don't get that anywhere else, you know? You've probably got one now, too." Karkat isn't so sure he believes that. He almost believes that Dave and Dirk's own paranoia just drove away a customer.   
  


      “He left pretty easily.”

      “He’ll be back,” Dirk says as he turns back to his friends. “There are plenty more fishing around.”

      The existence of dozens of undercover cops becomes an undeniable possibility when a few hours later, Dave nudges him and points to the RV. Marvus and Kurloz have their backs turned towards the aisle, their shoulders pressed together and their heads low. The guy from earlier, this time with a friend, sneaks up behind them. When the two turn, the pipe curled in Kurloz's hand with a mound of weed in it becomes visible. Almost immediately upon seeing it, the two undercovers whip out their badges. Just as quickly, Marvus takes off down the aisle, and one of the cops chases after him. Kurloz's face is pressed against the side of the RV, the weed spills to the dirt, and the twins stop their wrestling to watch with wide, confused eyes. There's a quick pat down, and Dave vocalizes a sympathetic cringe when he comes up with several sheets of full-sized blotter paper, printed and perforated. As he's walked down the aisle, people stand in their path, spitting and cursing and booing, throwing trash at the detective.

      Vindication and a little bit of relief swells in Dave's chest as he watches them go. That's two less goonies to take down, and four less eyes to watch their every movement. A small smile twists on his lips, until he sees Karkat's expression. He frowns, watching Meulin attempt to wrangle the kids out of the way, patient against their protesting and crying. More cops swarm, raiding the RV. "I wonder if their mom can take them. If they even have a mom. Or if they'll go into the system,” Karkat says. 

      "I wonder how much shit they've got in there. They'll be locked away for a long ass time if they've got as much on 'em as they've had at every other show." 

      The bust is the talk of Shakedown. Rumors spread about who snitched on them, since the biggest rat on lot was already eliminated a few shows ago. The most suspect of anyone is, of course, the Strider brothers. Competition? The looming threat of the Joker hanging over them? Everyone's been wondering when they'll make their move. And they all saw them talking to an undercover only a few hours before it all went down. All the brothers can do is continue as usual, pretending not to notice the glares sent in their direction. After the RV was thoroughly searched, and the cloud of uniformed cops and undercovers disperses, Meulin hides inside with the twins. No one stops by to ask how they're doing. It's dark by then, the concert well into the first set. 

      With so few customers, Karkat turns off the grill, replaces his spatula with his book. As he turns a page, he glances up and sees Bull striding towards the RV. He's flanked on either side by Dragonfly, and a distractingly tall guy. Karkat pauses, closes his book, then starts across the aisle. He plans on telling him that he can stick with them until the end of tour, or get him a bus back home. Meulin has her hands full without worrying about him, and the Joker will likely try to stay away, if he hasn't already been similarly detained. Just as he thinks this, Karkat hears his name yelled frantically. He turns in time to see that he was wrong about the Joker; he's still here, and he's stalking towards him, hunched in rage, tightly clenching a long piece of pipe in his fist.  
   
      Not a single word is uttered before The Joker descends upon him, swinging the pipe at his head. It hits him with a loud clang, and then it's chaos. The Joker had brought with him an army, and immediately, they attack, swinging their makeshift weapons, swearing and hollering and laughing. 

      Dave gracefully avoids everything aimed his way, shoving people from Karkat's crumpled form. He yanks the rusted piece of pipe from the Joker's hands and uses it to fend off other fists and bottles and bats. Dirk dives in after, gently helping Karkat to his feet and to the car. Then he throws himself back in, fists raised. Bodies bounce against them and against the pavement, blood flies through the air and sprinkles onto their faces. Cops in and out of uniform scream threats, shoot their guns in the air in an attempt to create order, break out their batons and pepper spray and handcuffs. It only serves to stoke the flames of violence. 

      Dave breaks the Joker's jaw with his own weapon, the crack audible to everyone close. He stumbles backwards only to be shoved into Dave's chest, giving him the perfect reach to punch him in his already misaligned jaw. He roars in animalistic fury and rams his head right into Dave's sternum, holding onto him as they crash to the ground. Dirk tackles the Joker off his brother, and the two of them loom above their enemy, raining down punches on him. Others circle around them, yank on their hair and their shirts, pummel them with their own weapons. The only thing visible to the pedestrians that stop to gawk is the pipe, raising in the air and slamming back down, again and again.

      The Joker wrangles himself out from underneath the dog pile, swinging his fists. Dave lurches in anticipation of another attack, but he keeps turning in circles, pinging against others like a bird caught indoors. People move only long enough to let him through, then resume their own fights. He's gone, disappeared into the continuously growing throng of violence and out into safety. Dave watches him go, suspicious of his sudden cowardice.

      The short moment of stillness is abruptly cut short when his arms are wrenched behind him. He’s forced to his knees, the pipe slipping between his bloody fingers, and he feels a cold pair of handcuffs wrap around his wrists. He looks up and sees the back of a massive woman, muscles rippling as she rears a fist back. And over her shoulder, he sees Karkat's face, eyes wide in terror. 

      Entirely on impulse, Dave jerks free of the officer's hands, shoves his way through tiny scuffles, and falls on his face. This trips his pursuer, and he takes the opportunity to twist his body painfully, scooting his butt over his hands, and pulling his legs through. An even harder task when the cop attempts to lift him to his feet. Through sheer will, he wiggles out of his grasp, and then throws his entire weight into the back of the woman's chest. In her surprise, she falls against Karkat, and they crash to the ground. Before he can do anything else, Dirk rips the woman off of Karkat, tossing her to the side with ease.  

      "Get in the fucking car, both of you morons. Just get in the fucking car." He pushes past them, into the driver's seat. They scramble into the back, lurching out of the woman's grasp.

      She pounds on the glass, laughing, as Dirk slowly backs into the brawl. People smack the car, bang on the windows, scream at them. Dave grabs Karkat's hands because that's all he can do with the handcuffs, and, through his panting, whispers calming words to him. Karkat snaps in irritation that he’s fine, but he leans heavily against Dave, pressing his cheek to his shoulder. They sway together, absorbing their mutual trembling as they drive deeper into the city. 

      "I should tell you now," Dirk says, staring blankly at the road ahead of him. "Dad's been staying with me in the spare room. He's out now, but he'll probably be back in a few hours. You guys can have my room, I'll sleep on the couch. I understand if you'd rather not stay here tonight."

      Dave clenches his teeth, squeezing Karkat's hand tighter as he thinks. His exhausted body is too heavy to feel anxious or angry. His stomach rumbles audibly. He's irritated with the cuffs binding his wrists together. As they turn onto a new street, he recognizes the old ghetto that the siblings had started out their lives in. "Does he know I'm here?"

      "He knows you're in town. He'll probably put it together."

      "Does he know about Karkat?" Their eyes meet in the rear view mirror.

      "No. You know I wouldn’t tell him." 

      "Long as he doesn't start nothin', I don't give a shit."

      Dirk's apartment is familiar, the peeling wallpaper, the noisy neighbors that no one ever calls the cops on. The inside is sparse, everything set up on cinder blocks or boxes, like dad's place always was. The old futon sits crookedly in the tiny living room. Dave remembers darting behind it as a kid when he heard his dad coming home, trying to make himself as small as possible. He remembers being yanked out by his hair, how he'd always slam his knee on the corner.

      He collapses into the only chair at the tiny kitchen table, closing his eyes. Dirk digs out a pair of pliers from his closet full of tools, and cuts the chain between the handcuffs. 

      “Why did he attack me?” Karkat asks from the living room. “I haven’t done anything to him. I haven’t done  _anything.”_

      “You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Dirk sets aside the pliers and digs around for a simple bobby-pin, picking at the locks on the bracelets. “He was looking to beat the shit out of the enemy, which includes you, by mere association. As long as he started it, defended his territory, people will still be afraid of him. But it’s all just mind games, he’s good at manipulating and he has a wide span on influence, but he’s not actually that great at taking care of shit himself.”

      “Yeah, I’ll say. You see the way he hightailed it out of there?” Dave chuckles, turning to look at Karkat, sitting stiffly on the uncomfortable futon.

      Karkat looks back at him, thinking that he looks exactly the same as he had the night it all started. The night he offered his couch to the bloody kid that hated him. He had thought that Dave was at a low point then, that he was hanging onto his last thread, that he was desperate. He realizes now that he has _always_ been at a low point, just on the precipice of falling apart into total disaster. It's incredible that he maintains the relatively positive attitude that he does, that he hasn't had a mental breakdown, that he isn't addicted to drugs, that he hasn't tried to kill himself. In actuality, he's gotten by pretty alright. Most people in his situation would be a lot worse off. 

      He wonders what exactly Dave's breaking point is. What would have happened if Karkat hadn't let him live with him? Most likely, he would have just... kept going. Like he said, garbage dive for scraps, get clothes from one of those drop off boxes. Find someone else to stay with. His chest aches at the thought. But at the end of the day, isn't it Dave's own fault? For going on tour, for selling drugs, refusing to get a job or his own place to live? Through the drying blood around his mouth, Dave flashes a wide smile as the first handcuff clicks and falls to the table. Karkat stands, and shuts Dirk's bedroom door behind him. 

      Dave's smile drops when he leaves without reacting. He definitely hates him. And Dave doesn't blame him; it’s his fault that Karkat got hurt. As Dirk toys with the second bracelet, he accidentally tightens it. The metal clamps around his wrist bone painfully and digs into his skin, but he makes no reaction at Dirk's muttered apology. 

      "He'll come around," Dirk says quietly as he tries again at the lock. _No, he won't,_ Dave thinks. Why would he? 

      They make sandwiches, leaving a third for Karkat sitting on the counter. Dave chews quickly, swallowing passed the ache in his chest where the Joker had head-butted him. He wants nothing more than to scurry into Dirk's room and lock himself away for the night, before his dad gets back. And no, he definitely isn't letting himself think about the night he had fallen asleep in the summer heat with a naked Karkat wrapped in his arms. He isn't even going to think about what he's going to say to him. In fact, he plans on never speaking to him again, to respect his own ill feelings towards Dave as well as to stop himself from making things worse. As he shoves the last bite into his mouth, standing to put the plate in the sink, he freezes. 

      Standing silently in the doorway is his father, a single grocery bag clutched in his fist. His narrowed eyes pierce through all of Dave's defenses, as if he knows every thought scurrying through his head. It's been eight months since he's seen his dad's series of polo shirts, the few buttons open to reveal a tuft of hair. Not the longest they had gone without seeing each other or speaking, but Dave has changed more in that time than he has his entire life. And not in any way that's acceptable, he thinks, realizing that he has completely frozen his entire body. The first few seconds they’ve seen each other and he’s already fucked up.  

      As his dad passes, heading towards the fridge, he backhands Dave in the face. It's not hard enough to do more than sting - he had a whole lot worse just a few hours before - but he still has to force down a flinch. "Wipe that look off your face, you look like a bitch. And what's with all that shit you've got all over you? You think you can live on the streets when you get your ass beat that easy?"

      "Come on, pops, he's had a rough night, cut him some slack." Dirk casually takes another bite of his sandwich. His demeanor hasn't changed, still loose and casual. Dave hates him for it.  

      "Little priss like him doesn't need _slack,_ he needs somethin' to make him man up." Dave is average height, average build, physically average in every way imaginable. It's an amazing feat of nature that he came from such a hulking man, twice his size in length, width, and girth. The handsome stubble still crawls up his cheeks, making his chin even more impossibly square. Dirk has his chin. Dave has his mother's, whoever she is, softer and slightly more rounded. Dirk takes the plate from Dave's still-frozen hand and slides it into the sink. Too late, he sees the third sandwich at the same time as his dad. Their eyes meet as he closes the fridge, crossing his arms. Dirk mirrors him, leaning against the sink. 

      "There someone else here?" 

      "Dave's got a girl. They're stayin' in my room tonight." Their dad looks at Dave with a blank expression, but one that somehow shows his disgust; he doesn't believe it's a girl. He _knows_ it's not a girl. He's always known about Dave, way before he even did; the stink of it must be clinging to his very essence. And yet dear old dad’s the only one that doesn't know about Dirk. Even though he's never had a girlfriend, even though everyone on Lot knows and he still prowls the scene to get laid from time to time. Maybe he chooses not to acknowledge it, or maybe he doesn't even care, and he just really hates Dave. Dirk shoves the sandwich into his hands, and starts telling their dad about how much he sold at the show, about the bust and the fight. The only evidence that he was in any sort of scuffle is his swollen, split knuckles. The golden child. He can have it. With his dad's gaze tracking his every movement, Dave makes his way down the hall, tail between his legs.

      Karkat sits on the bed, legs crossed, back straight. His twisted, concerned expression is a warm sight after facing the blank slates of the two men he's most closely related to. His cheek is split open, a gash that could probably use stitches leaking blood down his chin and his neck, staining his shirt. Dave can't even look at him. He locks the door behind him, roughly hands the plate to Karkat, and crawls into bed with his shoes on.

      "Was that your dad?" Karkat asks softly, setting the plate on the floor. Dave clenches his eyes shut hard, breathing shallowly to keep the trembling from his shoulders as a hot tear slides off his nose. "Are you okay?" He buries his face into the pillow, but Karkat had seen the redness filling his cheeks. "We don't have to stay here, you know. We can get a hotel. Or maybe even go to the hospital? We could both probably use that. Figure out in the morning what we're going to do." Dave shakes his head, knowing that if he speaks he'll be completely unable to hide anything. Once this wave of humiliating emotion passes, he'll get Dirk to come in and fix Karkat's face. Like everything else, he's good at playing doctor. And then they can just go to sleep, lose the heaviness of the day and deal with it all tomorrow. "Hey, come on, talk to me. I know we're kind of in a weird place right now, but... I still care about you. I don't want you to go to sleep feeling alone and... whatever else it is you're feeling." Dave takes a slow, deep breath, otherwise trying to keep still.

      "I hate..." he whispers, and with the crack in his voice, he feels his face involuntarily twist. He presses his face hard against the pillow to drown out the sounds. What he wants to say is that he hates his dad, he hates his brother, he hates himself, he hates the unfairness of life. He was just starting to figure things out and his fucking dad had to come in and ruin it with only a single criticism. 

      "Dave..." Karkat rubs his back as he cries. The sound of two manly voices wafts through the thin walls. Although they can't make out everything, they clearly hears Dave's name alongside a few other colorful insults. "Fuck it, come here," he mutters. He presses his chest against Dave's back, fitting his legs behind his knees and propping himself up on his elbow. As Dave's body shudders with the force of trying to repress his emotions, Karkat kisses his cheek, rubbing a comforting hand across his chest and down his arm. When he finally stops crying, he turns over, resting his forehead on Karkat's shoulder and draping an arm across his torso. "I've never seen you cry before," Karkat says, rubbing slow circles on his back.

      "No one has." They listen for the voices to die down, until they hear the almost completely silent close of his dad's bedroom door. After a beat, he says, "I'm really sorry for what I said-"

      "It's fine, Dave, we don't have to talk about it right now-"

      "But I want to." He lifts himself up to look down at Karkat with creased brows and red eyes. It's the most expression Karkat's ever seen on his face. "I want you to know that I am really, _genuinely_ sorry, I'm not just saying that for some bullshit reason. I didn't even mean it. I just said what my dad always said to me, and that's shitty. That was _so_ shitty of me, I don't want to be anything like him, I _really_ don't. I think you're great. Like, really, really great." His eyes fill with tears again, but these he's able to swallow. Karkat was never mad at him in the first place, but forgiveness completely washes through him. 

      After Dirk sews up Karkat's face - he doesn't even cry until he's gone - they fall asleep for a second time in each other's arms. They sneak out early in the morning, before the sun has risen. Dirk already sits at the edge of the bed, staring at the floor in contemplation. He apologizes to Dave, and Dave nods in acknowledgement, and they leave without another word. He never sees his dad again, never talks to him, never gains any sense of closure. Besides the grumpy waiter that he drives all the way back home with, it's the best thing that's ever happened to him. 


	19. Ripple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6W2SQfNNvRc  
> Merry Christmas!!!!  
> (Also I just found out this fic is long enough to be an epic.............)

[ _If my words did flow, with the gold of sunshine_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=671AgW9xSiA)

_And my tunes were played, on the harp unstrung_

_Would you hear my voice, come through the music?_

_Would hold it near, as it were your own?_

 

_It's a hand-me-down, the thoughts are broken_

_Perhaps they're better left unsung_

_I don't know, don't really care_

_Let there be songs to fill the air_

 

_Ripple in still water_

_When there is no pebble tossed_

_Nor wind to blow_

 

_Reach out your hand, if your cup be empty_

_If your cup is full, may it be again_

_Let it be known, there is a fountain_

_That was not made, by the hands of men_

 

_There a road, no simple highway_

_Between the dawn, and the dark of night_

_And you go, no one may follow_

_That path is for, your steps alone_

 

_Ripple in still water_

_When there is no pebble tossed_

_Nor wind to blow_

 

_You who choose to lead, must follow_

_But if you fall, you fall alone_

_If you should stand, then who's to guide you?_

_If I knew the way, I would take you home_

 

Houston, TX

 

      In the chaos of the brawl, Dragonfly is knocked to the ground, and Bull trips on top of her. Rufioh pulls them both up, and earns a fist to the back of his head. He whirls to defend himself, is pummeled to the ground, and lurches back to his feet. Left to their own devices, Bull and Dragonfly stumble over each other, rounding the RV, hoping to escape the violent echo of fists upon flesh. Dragonfly knows it's her fault she's in this situation; she would have been over by the arena begging for tickets or fucking Vriska behind a tree far away from the parking lot if she hadn't decided to follow Bull around. She had only hung around the pathetic teenager after Rufioh had found him in the hopes of getting a ride out of here, of having a solid place to sleep that night. That's what she does, what you're supposed to do - when an opportunity arises to find somewhere to sleep, you take it. It's bound to be better than listening to Dave and Karkat pretend not to be into each other, more entertaining than the predictable routine Vriska has fallen into. 

      And it was far too convenient, a kid only semi-conscious lying on the ground with a bag full of her favorite candy. It was only her peanut-sized guilty conscience that made her sit beside him and watch over him so that no one did even worse than simply rob him of a few bags. She didn't even _really_ do anything; after she had rummaged through his pockets, she was there on the ground with him, staring blankly at the sky in just as much of a haze.

      "We- we have to- we have to help. He's being _attacked."_ She waves Bull away, rubbing at the spot on her hip that will undoubtedly blossom into a bruise. 

      "He'll get away just fine." Bull's lower lip quivers, and he starts to cry again. As sympathetic as Dragonfly has tried to be, he's starting to get on her nerves. She can easily see why the Joker has been able to manipulate him so well. "Look, if you really want to help, you're gonna have to go in there yourself. Do you _really_ think you can do that?" Bull tiptoes around the corner, peering back into the fight. Rufioh's red mohawk, now tilted, projects above a ring of a few scruffy guys Bull recognizes as the Joker's other lackeys. They rain all their anger on him, but, despite his lack of training or practice, he blocks them all with pure strength. Bull pulls away, shaking his head. 

      He sees that the small screened window carved into the side of the RV is propped open. Remembering the illicit bags in his pockets, he guides Dragonfly beneath the window. He cups her hands and tells her to hold on. On one shaky leg in a pair of shaky hands, he wrestles with the screen. A small face pops up, grinning and giggling. Whichever twin it is helps pop the screen off until it clatters inside, and then Bull hurriedly rummages through his pockets. He shoves in the bag of smaller bags, which the kid _oohs_ at like a teacher had just caught Bull misbehaving. 

      "I can't take it much longer-" Dragonfly moans, just as her arms give out. He crashes to the ground, the stack of blotter paper flurrying around him. 

      As he scrambles to scoop them up in a panic, a figure races around the corner. The Joker collects the rest of the papers and shoves them back into his pockets. Their gazes meet, the Joker's wry and grinning, Bull's wide and terrified. Wordlessly, he pulls the teenager to his feet by the armpits and drags him through the parking lot with one hand, eyes darting around as if expecting an attack. By his side hangs the pipe, clutched white-knuckled in his fist. Bull is too afraid to even speak, let alone struggle against him.

      "It's okay, little bro, I got you," the Joker's voice is mangled and muffled. The grin that splits through the blood covering his face is crooked from a balloon of swelling in one cheek. Despite the deformity, he shows no signs of being in pain. Bull allows himself to be hauled along, biting back his whimpers. 

      The arena empties around them, creating a whole sea of people fighting against them. Bull wiggles his arm, hoping to get lost in the crowd. The Joker's clutch only tightens. A ring of cops are stationed around the stadium, in various states of action; some stare out at the ocean blankly, and others speak into their walkie talkies as they jog towards the growing riot. The Joker keeps the pipe close to his leg to hide it as he slips around them, into the bowels of the city. Bull looks over his shoulder. No one looks back.

      The Joker tugs him through winding alleyways, almost jogging. They slip through cracks between buildings, dart into the shadows whenever they hear a voice, look both ways before crossing beneath a streetlamp. Bull stumbles as his short legs struggle to keep up, the Joker's grip on his arm aching. The decent apartments and quaint neighborhood bodegas give way to crooked brownstones, smokers on their front steps. In one alley, two men look back at them, their hands reached out towards each other in a familiar handshake. The Joker chuckles, salutes them, and moves past them, deeper into the alley. 

      A few streets over, they finally stop between two neighboring apartment buildings a decent distance from the arena. It's dark and slimy, far in a corner. A half-wall stands in the middle of it with a mangled chain link fence that opens to the other end. They stand by the trashcans, breathing heavily, garbage sour in their nostrils. The Joker pauses, then bursts into laughter. "Just me 'n you now, son! Kurloz be out there somewheres, we'll find 'im eventually. But it's just me 'n you. What'd'ya think of that?" His face is visible in striations of light from a nearby window, like looking at him through a pair of blinds. Bull takes a step away, swallowing down nausea at the clicking jaw and the eyes blinking at him from a mask of blood.

      "I-I actually, um. My brother... he came to, um, hang. And, uh, I was wanting to stay, you know, with him. At my uncle's tonight. If that's okay."

      "Shit, good idea. Already got us a place to crash. You're a natural." The Joker grins, squeezing Bull's shoulder in pride. "How much did'ja sell? Bet everybody was horny for a good time with everyone else pussyin' out in Texas, huh? How much?" He makes what must be his first acknowledgement of his jaw; he lightly runs a hand along it, gently prodding and pushing, like he was trying to pop the bubble of fluid filling in his cheek. Bull looks away in disgust.

      "Uh, n-not much..."

      "Let me see." He reaches out a greedy hand between them. Bull takes another step back. 

      "I don't have it. I already gave it to Meulin." The Joker drops both his hands. His eyes rake up and down Bull's body, sending shivers down his spin. Another step back, and he can feel the heat radiating from the half-wall. 

      "Well, hey, I still got this, least. So's we can still celebrate." The Joker pulls out the bag of dust, shaking it enticingly. It's all Bull can do to keep from moaning in misery at the sight of it. Right there, he makes a vow of sobriety. He shakes his head, attempting to lean casually against the wall while still tensed to run when given the chance. As if he would do anything but cower. "Come on..." The Joker grabs his thumb, but Bull keeps his mouth shut tight to keep him from shoving it into his mouth. He yanks his hand away.

      "No. No, I don't want to."

 _"Come on..."_ He tries again, and Bull yanks his hand away, barbed adrenaline slithering through his veins like poison.

      "No! I-I didn't sell anything. I didn't sell _anything._ Because I was too- I was too fucked up-"

      "That's aight, we can get high now and sell it later-"

 _"No._ I don't want to sell anything. I don't want to _do_ anything. You can't come to my uncle's with me. My brother was going to take me home. I don't want to be here anymore. I hate tripping. And I don't like being forced to do it." He begins to cry again, recoiling into himself in anticipation of an assault for betraying him. 

      The Joker places his hand again on his shoulder, gently this time, and crosses the other over his chest, the pipe jutting above his shoulder. "Oh, brotha, I didn't be knowin' you all up and felt that way. It hurts, knowin' you were feelin' all pressured and shit. See, I don't consider god's honey a drug. Not like all that other shit we sell, that be why I ain't never wantin' you to take that shit. But you right. I won't be doin' it again." Bull chances a glance up at him through his bleary tears. He's still tripping, still raw from the force of the drug throbbing throughout his brain. Almost - he _almost_ believes him. The frown on his face, the way his eyebrows are sewn together. He looks guilty, apologetic. Almost. Bull can't help but notice the darkness that still drips from his eyes along with the blood on his lashes. He looks too much like an entity from a horror movie to draw sympathetic understanding.

      "You belong with me. You know that, right?" He shakes Bull's shoulder, staring into his eyes intensely. When he doesn't respond, he shakes him again, digging his fingers in harder. "Huh?" Bull nods, and he smiles. "Yeah, you a valuable part of the crew. Inconspicuous. Innocent-lookin'. You're family, we care 'bout you. Remember that festival we went to? When you helped me sneak Kurloz and Marvus in?" Bull nods again, forcing a smile. The Joker had looked over at him and, through hesitant words, like he was nervous about such a vulnerable admittance, said it was like fatherly bonding. "That's the shit Mad Dog used to do wit me. He ain't a father, but more of a father to me than I ever had, but he do that shit with me when I's your age, then he give me a beer. Ain't got none-a that now, but I got this," he lifts the bag again. "Please, for me?" Bull shakes his head, choking on a sob.

      "Please. I just want to go home." He puts his face in his hands, and he cries, because that's all he knows how to do. 

      "So that's it, huh?" The Joker drops his hand, and Bull looks up with wide eyes. He's not smiling anymore, no longer trying to hide anything. In Bull's mind, his face grows long and pointed, the messy knot of almost-dreads on his head poking out at the top as if covering two horns. "You gon' abandon me, after all I've done for you?" He takes a step back, and Bull holds his breath. "I give you a home," another step back, shaking his head. "I give you food, I give you purpose." He points the pipe up at Bull's face. _"And you dare to motherfuckin' up and_ leave _me?"_ His voice is deep and rough in a way Bull has never heard. All hints of casualty, ease, friendliness - anything human is gone from his angry accusations. "You're the worst kinda person. Take advantage of people. I treat you like a _son,_ and you rip my goddamn heart out. You're manipulative and you're selfish and you're _crazy._ You're fucking _crazy,"_ he shakes his head as if in disbelief. "You been weavin' this whole story in your mind, makin' things go your way. You're _crazy. And y_ ou think it been easy, mentorin' you? Always havin' your sad lil eyes watchin' me? Judgin' me? Now when it's time for you to be payin' me back all I done for you, you just _leave?_ You ain't _allowed_ to leave, boy," he says darkly, closing in on the young, begging teenager trapped in a corner, the pipe raised high above his head.

      The last thing Bull thinks is a memory. The Joker laughed as he told stories about his time in prison, all the people he's beaten, and stabbed, and dusted. He regales these tales of revenge and protection in great pride. Back then, he was the cool guy who let Bull have as many beers as he wanted, and complimented him all the time. Innocently, he had asked if the Joker had ever killed anyone. Although the joy had drained from the Joker's face, that empty smile had remained. With a hand on Bull's shoulder, he said, "Please don't ask me that question, brotha. I hate to lie to ya." 

 

      "Did you get them in?" Dragonfly asks, standing to her feet. Silence greets her. "Kid, what happened? Did you get it? Bull?" She feels along the trailer, turning her ear away from the sounds of grunting men. He must have gone in for Rufioh after all, or else run away, leaving her behind. She wouldn't be surprised.

      "Where'd he go?" Rufioh asks breathlessly, scurrying around the corner. He looks over his shoulder in paranoia, flexing the fingers of his right hand. 

      "I thought he- I don't know. He was just right here."

      "What? What do you mean?" He turns in a desperate circle, calling out his little brother's name.

      In his panicked frenzy, he shoves through the crowd, barreling straight through the scuffles, oblivious to the danger around him. Dragonfly quickly loses him, and can do nothing but move as far away from the scene as she can. No one picks up their phone; not Karkat, or Vriska, or any of the other various phone numbers she's accumulated. She slowly makes her way through the cars, almost in boredom. Every thought that comes through her head - good or bad, trying to find Bull or finding a bathroom to smoke out, find a ride to the next show or hitchhike back home - is thoroughly squashed down. Nothing is worth her attention at the moment. 

      On the outskirts of the arena, away from the flashing lights and the commotion, she finds a nice curb to sit on. A passing stranger allows her a cigarette, lighting it with his own, and then continues by to scope out the excitement. She pulls the smoke into her lungs, chin propped in her palm. Something will happen, something always happen, and all she'll have to do is let it pull her along. Right on cue, there's a gush of air beside her, and the smell of sweat. 

      "I can't find him anywhere. I don't know what to do." Rufioh bounces his leg irritably, swearing under his breath. "My uncle said to just come home. We'll file a missing persons report, get an Amber alert sent out. I can't just sit around here not _doing_ anything."

      Dragonfly offers him the cigarette, but he declines. "Well, if you were Bull, where would you go in this situation?"

      "I don't know. I don't know. I don't know how he could do any of this shit in the first place." They wait tensely for the other to say something. "Well, hey, thank you for watching over him when he was all zonked out. You don't even know the kid and you still helped him, expecting no reward. Thank you."

      The little stolen treasures of white powder in her bag illuminate in her mind. She smiles, fluttering her eyelashes at him. "Well, you know, I don't have anywhere to stay for the night."

      So, to show his gratitude, Rufioh agrees to take her to his uncle's house a few hours away. It's on a very small reservation, with miles of winding roads sprinkled with trailers and churches inside even nicer trailers. His uncle's place is no different, set between a pair of hills, obscuring it from sight of the distant road or any other houses. In the backyard, a cloud of smoke funnels into the dark sky, from a fire too big for the lone man that sits beside it. He puffs on a pipe, smiling politely when Rufioh introduces his new friend. He leaves the two strangers, wishing them goodnight. Not yet ready to be alone, Dragonfly sits beside the older man, on the log with a bench carved out of it. "Your lungs are unhappy," he says, sucking in a plume of smoke and blinking away ashes. "There are things I can give you to help their pain. Would you like that?" 

      "Sure, I guess. You got anything to help _my_ pain?" She chuckles to show that she's joking, but he does not laugh. Wordlessly, he wanders away, and comes back with a small pot. Buried in it is a squat cactus with a bright pink flower for a hat. Sure, she decides, why not eat a button of peyote with a strange, quiet old man? She's done weirder. Expertly, she guzzles down the disgusting brew with only mild gagging, like it's merely a bottle of whiskey. Then she sits back, and they quietly enjoy the fire. 

      "You know... I don't think I will ever see my nephew again."

      "Don't say that, he'll come around," Dragonfly repeats the scripted line that sounds fake even to her. He doesn't answer for a long moment.

      "It's easy to imagine future conversations with people, imagine what they'll look like in ten years. There are so many things they could do, and you can picture them, right in your mind. But I can't do that with him. He's already forever frozen as the young, fearful boy he always was, and I can't conjure up any sort of image of him as an older man." If Dragonfly could see, she would be confused by the calm on his tanned face at this fear that he's vocalized. He's just an ordinary middle-aged man, in a plain t-shirt and jeans. But his voice is soothing and heavy with something that wraps around his words, like each one is a gift carefully crafted for the ears that receive them. Dragonfly doesn't respond. She thinks this is okay, that he wasn't exactly looking for one. His own repose makes her comfortable not filling the air with meaningless words. "I hope he isn't dead. The death of a child is always sad. It's sad every time a person you love dies, regardless of how many others you've lost. In fact, it makes you relive every single one of them. But there's a lesson in each one. That wasn't the purpose of their death, but there is a lesson in everything, you know. In every moment, every series of thought, every encounter. It has purpose, if you look for it." Dragonfly tilts her head. He already seems to be at peace with this.

      "You think he's dead?" He hums after this pause.

      "Apparently I do. I didn't realize that. There's no use in feeling sad about it now though, is there? There will be plenty of time for that when we find out the truth, if it is unfavorable. Hopefully it is just my anxiety." 

      They sit again in comfortable silence, independently thinking - or actively trying not to think. She's close to just sleeping off the stomach ache and dealing with her vague trip on whatever surface she's assigned to. Before she can even think about standing, it hits her all at once, a wave of intoxication entrapping her body in a vice. And all she can do is _feel it._

      The pain that she’s been burying behind layers of denial and drugs bursts from the prison of her mind. Pain from her childhood, the hurt she felt when her parents would sneer at her in disgust because she didn’t want to be a lawyer or a dentist, how it deepened when she said she didn't _know_ what she wanted to do with her life. She aches with the heart of a child who never received enough affection, the mind of an adult who knows she could have had it worse. Words that drew from the silence her parents gave her, from the blank eyes that always looked straight through her; critical words that tell her she isn't enough, she's too much, she isn't correct. 

      Guilt gleams on the edge of every cruel word she’s screamed at her sister, who sides with her parents, who thinks they were perfect, and that Dragonfly is over dramatic. That everything that's wrong with her is completely her fault, and her sister who is always right. She's consumed by hatred that makes her tremble all over. Hatred for her family, for everyone she's ever known, for all of the selfish souls that roam this worthless planet. With the most clarity, she hates herself. For specific reasons; her impulsivity, her low intelligence, her weakness, her helplessness, she hates every fundamental building block of her existence. She hates herself regardless of the reasons, for simply being what she is. There is nothing that can change her mind.

      She remembers her birth, the trauma of being forced from the womb into a terrifying world of blindness where blindness is unacceptable, a disappointment and a burden before she's even take her first breath of air. Even now, she longs to once again feel that safety and comfort, to feel a pair of sturdy arms around her. There's something about human flesh that comforts her in a way nothing else can. She remembers the last time she saw her mother, when they moved back to New York, leaving her and Latula behind. It was just another day, nothing special had happened. They didn't hug. They never hugged. And then they were gone, and they barely called, and they didn't complain when Dragonfly didn't wish them happy holidays. She can't even remember the last time she hugged her mother, but she remembers when she was a small child and she would curl up in bed with both of her parents and her sister. The security of being surrounded by solid bodies, a family that _loves_ her. Why did they change? What did she do to make them stop? Why is she so unlovable?

      And now she's completely, utterly alone. It aches like a pit inside of her, sucking away her very essence until she's nothing but a mass of walking instinct. Not even the instinct to stay alive; all it hungers for is pleasure, in whatever false idol it can find. There's no one left who cares for her, there's no Dave or Vriska to distract her. She's pushed _everyone_ away. Something bursts into her mind, interrupting her familiar wallowing - something familiar but detached, like someone else's memory. 

      A man hugs her from behind. She can tell it's a man because the chest is hairy against her bare back, and by the rough, callused hands that trail down her chest and belly to that space between her legs. There's no hair there; she hasn't gotten her period yet or even knows what a period is. She's confused and scared but he doesn't pull away when she says she doesn't want to play anymore. It's a flash in her mind that she only registers once it's gone. Already the details fade and get washed away in all the other sensations and memories and hallucinations. 

      It's these things, all of them, that she cowers away from and smothers with toxic smoke in her lungs and black ink in her veins. The reason she can't bear to face any of her thoughts, to face reality. It hurts. Everything hurts. Through stuttering lips and an ocean of tears, she whimpers, "I hurt," and she heaves with a heavy sob, covering her face with both hands. "I hurt _so bad_. I don't know what it is, or where it comes from. But it hurts, right here," she twists her fingers between her breasts. "And it hurts all the time." 

      She tries to think back to when she didn't feel the hungry abyss in her rib cage, and hits a wall. Her blurry childhood offers no answers. Even her young adolescence - before she let herself show the external world her insides, however ugly and smeared it was - is clouded with an internal darkness. There is something wrong with her, there is something broken. And she almost fixed it, she was _so close._ She did everything she was supposed to, she went to rehab, she apologized, she started being honest, she tried to resist temptation. 

      With a start, she realizes why she had fallen so far back. Aradia left her, and she got lost again. Overwhelming grief steals her breath. She can only sob wordlessly, release every ounce of the sorrow that fuels her every action, and cover her hands over her mouth in an attempt to shove it all back in. It’s like she’s feeling it for the first time, the shock of hearing it, her mind trying to catch up with the loss while simultaneously trying to pretend it hadn't heard at all. All the tears she has previously shed were merely the surface emotions; shock, mostly, and sadness, of course. But it isn’t until now that she imagines Aradia, laughing and radiating an energy that was so uniquely her own and so beautiful, and feels the loss. Feels the absence. She is an experience that will forever remain only in her mind's eye, in old videos and memories spoken aloud. She's [gone](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7BgzrfUA8lo). 

      It doesn’t seem fair. She was so young, they all are, still practically kids. She never decided on a tattoo, despite always saying she wanted one. Dragonfly has always wanted a tattoo, just to see if she could handle it, but she's never had enough money. Aradia never got the chance to be a mother, which is a shame because she’d have been the best goddamn mom anyone could ask for. All of them would be better off if they had a mom like Aradia. Dragonfly has never considered kids, she could never do that to another human being. Aradia never got to leave the country, or learn another language, or even fly on a plane. There was an entire planet, a whole _life_ that she’s now missed out on. Someone has taken it from her, taken it from the _world._

      It isn’t fair. 

      There are cruel people possessed by greed and selfishness who get to live their lives until their worthless bodies decide to give up. There are people who float through life like ghosts, never thinking too deeply or feeling much of anything. Every day is the same for them, and they die having gained almost nothing. People like Dragonfly, who take and take and _take,_ who never have enough and never appreciate what they have. People that run governments and systems, ones that serve only to rake in more money for those who need it the least. 

      But Aradia wasn’t like that. She was connected to her experiences, so full of life that it poured out of her and everything she did. She lived a richer life in her short 23 years than most people do in their entire lives. Dragonfly could have died and the whole world would be better off, there are millions of people that could have died instead and the world would be unchanged. It doesn't make sense.

      It’s not fair. 

      There was no reason for it. Nothing has come of it, there are no lessons to learn. She's still getting high, she's still disrespecting her body and other's, seeing people only as shadows that might distract her in the still between moments. That stillness used to be filled with kisses from soft lips that told her in the same breath how beautiful life is, and Dragonfly almost believed her. If anything, whatever is out there saw Aradia smearing its name and struck her down, and that's the lesson, to never let yourself hope. But there is no lesson, she reminds herself. God isn’t pulling any strings to guide Dragonfly towards the right path, the universe didn’t throw this at her for any reason at all. It happened, and that’s all. It just _happened_. There was an unforeseeable series of ambivalent events that ended with a body empty of anything at all. There’s no one and nothing overseeing everything, making it meaningful. She’s utterly alone and everything that’s right in front of her is all there is. 

      It's not _fucking_ fair.

      She thinks about going to church with her grandparents when she was a kid. In that time, there was always a pair of eyes tracking her every movement. She refused to use the bathroom there because she was afraid of God watching her. The pastor said once that there are times when it's hard to keep going, it's hard to stand proud, times when there seems to be no reason to. Those are the times, he said, when you fall to your knees. You let yourself go, and you pray, and God will be there to catch you. Through prayer, and faith, He will give you strength, He will shoulder your burdens and take your hand and guide you. He will relieve you of your will and replace it. Dragonfly remembers her grandma's funeral, how the pastor had described heaven, told everyone not to be sad, for she lives on in the eternity of beautiful, perfect, flawless heaven. 

      "And just where the fuck is God now?" She moans aloud, turning harshly to the plain man beside her. He studies her, listening openly, witnessing her anguish with curious eyes.

      Why would someone steal a life before it had the chance to blossom, why would they put out a beautiful light? Where most people waste years doing nothing, gaining nothing - why would God take away from the world a person who truly made a difference? When there are millions of people who hurt and kill and take pleasure in the agony of others, why are they still breathing? Why do they get to keep turning the world to shit? Why take away one of the so, _so_ few people who make it better? 

      "Where _is_ she? I can't believe that she's out there frolicking in a field of fucking flowers in the clouds," Dragonfly spits in rage. "I don't _feel_ her with me. I should be able to feel her, she always felt someone after they died. Why can't I _feel_ her? She's gone, she's just _gone,_ and I don't know where she is. She's lost." Dragonfly's chest pangs with a deep ache, thinking about her beautiful friend wandering through an infinite nothingness, scared and alone and confused. She burps and gags, her body telling her that her emotions are too much to handle, that they have moved on from her and are now effecting the real world.  

      Through a veil of her personal tribulation, she hears the uncle say, "Don't confuse your own spirit with hers - she is the one that knows the answers now. You are lost, not her." She tilts her head towards the sky, hot tears dripping from her chin. 

      Mentally, she prays to the God and unfeeling universe that she doesn't believe in. With every drop of her useless, pitiful quintessence, she asks whatever may be listening for five minutes. Just five more minutes with her, to tell her she was loved, that Dragonfly loved her. Just one more hug. There aren't enough hugs in this godforsaken world. 

      She has no choice but to take off the lid and let it spill over. It leaks from her eyes and her nose and her mouth and her lungs. The self-hatred pumps into her stomach and she pukes for a long time, sobbing all the while. Between coughing fits and purges, the well keeps filling and spilling. She fears that she had eaten the wrong part of the plant and has died, damned to an eternal hell of suffering and stench. She spits onto the ground, and stands on shaky legs. 

      A pair of hands gently grabs her elbows and guides her back to her seat. What little of the world she can see brightens along with the fire. She feels lighter, as if she had vomited up a significant ball of evil that had been weighing her down.

      "I just want a reason. I want a point to it all. I want something more than the misery of being alive. I don't care about this stupid body that I have to take care of, I don't want to do it anymore. I don't want to live in this world anymore, it's suffocating and it's so _heavy._ Please, just show me something that will make it worth it. Show me why I have to stay here, why I'm being forced to stay here against my will because goddammit I don't _want_ it anymore!" She makes herself gag again with the force of her sobbing, but only a string of bile comes out. 

      "Purpose is a choice," the man says casually, turning away from her almost in disinterest. 

      His impartiality when her whole world is crumbling beneath her feet is a startling alarm. Those four simple words echo through her mind. If she could, what would she choose her purpose to be? She slumps down, breathing slowly, too exhausted to fight or argue. She lets go of her control, of the ego that constantly pushes and pulls at her emotions, hiding them away and handpicking the ones that are acceptable. She reels it in, and she rests. Holding back her expectations, her desires - letting it all coexist in a space separate from the experience itself. For the first time in her life, she listens.

      The same thoughts she's been agonizing for years roll through her mind. She's pathetic, everyone hates her, there's nothing she can do to change. She was born wrong and she may as well roll over and let life have its way with her - but something else talks back this time. Something that almost seems outside of her, or at least something buried very deep. It asks why. Why is she doomed to this? Why does she accept it? It wasn't always like this. _She_ wasn't always like this. That little girl who was erratic and excitable, who had a vicious imagination that could keep her entertained for hours... she's still in there. Dragonfly still exists somewhere in all of the darkness that has consumed her. She hates herself, viscerally, physically, in every way a person could possibly hate. And maybe she deserves that, maybe she deserves everything that's happened to her. But maybe it doesn't matter what she does or doesn't deserve. Maybe that's not her only option, maybe there isn't a single road of fate that she's destined to walk on, one full of potholes and obscured with litter. There's no such thing as destiny, only a series of choices, so isn't it up to her what happens next? There are infinite roads, infinite paths to take, and they all span out before her, all the possibilities. From her past, all the different decisions she could have made, and also the future, the infinite lives that she could lead, iterated all around her.

      Three options become very clear: she can continue as she is now. Doing whatever she wants, indulging and ignoring and hurting. It's the easiest, to not think any deeper than her surface desires and unhealthy coping mechanisms. It'll kill her eventually anyways. Or she can do it herself. This one has been playing on her mind for a long time, the silent inevitability, the backup plan. Suicide seems the most fair, the most likely, the best option. 

      But a third appears before her. One she hasn't considered because of how impossible it seems. Looking at it hurt, looking at the life that she knows she could never lead. Even if she did, if she tried to be happy, genuinely put in _all_ of her time and effort and _hope_ \- what if it doesn't work? What if she cultivates the perfect life for herself and she still isn't happy? She doesn't even know what it's like to be happy, maybe she's not capable of it. She can't even a imagine a life where she's happy. Something inside of her is broken. It's not even worth the effort, she's not worth it. But it's not about worth, is it? There is no all-knowing being that looks and measures all of her actions and thoughts and feelings. It's up to her if she's worth it, if life is worth it. She really doesn't see how it could be.

      That morning, she wakes facing the window. It's cracked open, letting in a soft warm breeze and the comforting morning sun rays. A dragonfly sits on the window sill, staring back at her, tittering its wings in the breeze. She slowly rises and pushes the window open all the way, turning her face towards the sun. The smell of bacon fills her nostrils. She feels lighter, and the world feels infinitely heavier. They've swapped rolls, the two of them. Rather than herself being a black hole pulling on the fabric of flimsy reality, she has become a particle of light that can easily pull back the curtains and see what's behind it all. She can finally see the point, the one that she has created all on her own. It is _hers,_ no one else's. Which is, simply, there is no point, so it's up to her to do the best she can, however weak that effort may be. Instead of agonizing at the lack of a bigger picture, she can focus on the little things. Like Aradia did. Find the same joy in the morning rays upon her cheeks, the familiar smell of bacon. It can be taken away very suddenly. Perhaps it's time she actually start living, instead of vehemently pushing life away for being too much to handle. Now that the burden of existence has been at least temporarily lifted from her, maybe she can take the brunt of happiness.

      She stays with the Nitram family for several more nights, after flushing the smack down the toilet. They leave her alone in the guest bedroom, only occasionally bringing her water and inviting her to dinner. She doesn't eat or do much besides lie around in her bed. It makes her think of when Bee and Aradia kidnapped her, and she wishes she was back there again, bathing naked in a river. When everything bad that happened was so crushing, yet still so far away. A sad movie, but not real life. She can feel it all now, how terrible and morally bankrupt life really is. She remembers a lot of things, reliving her past, the life that she has up until now been ignoring. That one concert in Chicago last summer, Aradia, The Bee Guy, and Karkat, all the genuinely amazing people she's met. The ones that love her. And they do, don't they? Her sister held on for so long. The Bee Guy still messages her occasionally, telling her to be safe, reminding her that he still cares about her. Maybe it's possible that she's alone only because she's forced herself into it. Because she believes there is no other option. There is love all around her, she has just been stubbornly ignoring it for a variety of unreasonable reasons.

      More than once she thinks of her options again, and comes to the conclusion that she _will_ kill herself, that she wants to know the answers, too. Every time, though, something happens - the smell of bacon, the sound of laughter, a cool breeze on her cheek - and she cries. She wants it to be worth it. More than anything, she wants to want to be alive.

      When the unfortunate truth reveals itself, they invite her to the funeral, where Bull's little body is shoved into a tiny casket. She declines, on the pretense that she doesn't want to be intrusive. Truthfully, all their talk about planning the funeral reminds her too much of the last one she had gone to. All the crying, the admissions that it's unfair, that it was so sudden, sharing memories of him, and their regrets. If they could, they'd tell him one last time that they love him. People respond to it in all the same ways. She spends the day mourning her own family member. Properly, without shame or denial, facing it head-on. 

      That night, when they come back from the very small gathering, Rufioh's uncle steps outside to pray and puff on his pipe, fat tears streaming down his cheeks. Dragonfly finds Rufioh slumped on the couch, crying. Alone. He reminds her of The Bee Guy, looking around like he's lost in his own head. Maybe also a little like herself. She sits beside him, rubbing his back, willing the pressure of her palms to offer him just a drop of comfort. 

      "I'm going away for a little bit," he sniffs. "I have a friend in Oregon who has a pot farm. Off the grid, no electricity or running water. I want to get away and just... survive, you know? Not have to focus on anything too big. I can't go back to my dad, I can't face that." Dragonfly nods. 

      "My friend knew a guy with a pot farm in California. We almost moved out there, actually. It was, uh, on our way, that... we got into an accident. Our friend, you know... she didn't make it. So, I know what you're feeling. And I'm sorry that you have to feel it." He looks up at her, wiping at his eyes.

      "Wait, was it Aradia?" 

      "You knew her?"

      "No, but I know Kankri. He said he was having a couple people help him out on the farm, but one of them died and the others decided not to come. He had to move to Oregon because of it, downsize 'cause he didn't have enough help." 

      "Huh. Small world." 

      After a moment, Rufioh asks if she would like to join him at the farm. It sounds horrible to her, living with nothing to distract her, not even a movie or a hot shower. Nothing to occupy her except her own thoughts and feelings. Just hearing about it, she wants to actively run in the other direction. She accepts the offer. 

      Not many things make her anxious, not in the normal sense. Anxiety for her takes the form of anger, of crying and smoking and yelling. But as they drive into the wilderness, the service on their phones dwindling to nothing, armed with not so much as a single beer, she's distinctly nervous. Doubt starts to creep in; she wonders what the point is, of trying to do better, be better. She doesn't even know what that looks like. Again, she thinks of her options, and forces herself to think of them clearly: run away, kill herself, or try. Life hasn't done much good for her so far, but she's always enjoyed trying new things. When they climb out of the truck, there's the smell of bacon cooking over a fire, and a familiar breeze. There's a rundown camper on the edge of the property that she has all to herself, and a dog, her nipples dragging on the ground from her pregnant belly, that barks at her excitedly. Every morning, she wakes to birds chirping, and an excited dog waiting to lick her fingers, and a list of chores that she does in solitude. Life hasn't done her any good.

      But she decides it's worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all the angst in this one. It's funny, in a morbid sort of way... I've been writing this fic as a way to process my experiences. The characters are all based on people in my life, little bits of them all stitched into one character, so that I can maybe better understand them. Aradia is a combination of my mom and my best friend, all their best parts. They're very similar. I wrote her death to express my own feelings about my dad, who also died in a car accident, a long time ago. Very recently my best friend died the same way, and I wrote parts of this chapter when I was still processing her death. Maybe that's oversharing but it's my fic and I'll cry if I want to :')


	20. Not Fade Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I knew a woman that had a bunch of little GD postcard things. I only met her a few times, but she let me and some other people stay in her home for a while, and she gave me a postcard. "Welcome to tour, where your dreams really do come true! NFA" I still have it hanging up in my room. There are a lot of "anthems" and iconic Grateful Dead songs, but Not Fade Away is /really/ one of them. It's such a simple one, simple lyrics. But it's an important because, not to be a hippie or anything, but love is truly all that matters.

[ _I wanna tell you how it's gonna be_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QTPndsG_KA4)

_You're gonna give your love to me_

_I wanna love you night and day_

_You know my love not fade away_

_You know my love not fade away_

_Not fade away!_

 

_My love is bigger than a Cadillac_

_I try to show you but you drive me back_

_Your love for me has got to be real_

_You're gonna know just how I feel_

_Our love is real_

_Not fade away_

_Not fade away!_

 

Home

 

      It's hot and humid. A horse-drawn carriage slowly passes as Dave picks the strings of the guitar that Karkat had gotten him all those months ago. Snaking down the familiar front steps of the Sahara is a line of tourists, sunburned and hungry. Bitterly, Dave remembers that Dead and Co. are playing their last show in a few hours, in San Diego. Their very last show, ever, and here he is, sitting on the ground, hundreds of miles away. On the corner of the restaurant, he sees two kids eagerly yelling at people as they pass to buy their swirlies. He was pleased to hear that their harasser hadn't been spotted since Dave knocked him on his ass. 

      As he finishes his next song, a familiar figure plops on the ground beside him, close enough that their knees touch. Karkat digs through his leftover Chinese container, dropping rice on his uniform. He listens to Dave play and when he's done eating, he leans back, briefly rubbing a hand on Dave's back, then lets it fall. 

      "Boss man says that you can't play outside the restaurant after your performance this weekend." Dave flattens the guitar across his lap, leaning back and pressing his shoulder against Karkat's. 

      "That's dumb. Why?"

      "Because you're an employee. If you play inside on the weekends, they're giving the gift of a platform and inspiration to their little worker. If you're sitting on the street begging for money, they'll look like evil managers that don't pay enough. He says it's fine for now while they still work out your schedule, but today's the last day."

      This doesn't bother him. His late night and early morning shifts had kept his face out of the customers' eye and filled his wallet; he only played on the street now for fun. He finds himself with a lot of free time these days, now that he's cut himself off from all his old friends. And he doesn't have to figure out new, creative ways to sell enough grass to please his superiors. And he doesn't have to find a place to shower, or sleep. He doesn't mind any of these new changes either, he thinks, looking at Karkat. With only a little stiffness, only a dash of shyness, he reaches over and gives Karkat a small peck on the cheek. 

      "Aw, you boys cute!" Roxy crouches down beside them with a drink in her hand, swaying. Her face droops dramatically in concern, and she looks them both in the eye very seriously. "Listen, uh, I got somethin' to tell y'all. I assume you don't know or you prob'ly wouldn't be all... out in the open and such." Dave's cheeks redden, thinking she's going to inform them of the new phenomenon of homophobia and warn them about displays of affection. "Actually, why don't you just come in? We'll ask the bartender to play it back." 

      Uncertainly, Dave packs away his instrument and they follow her to the bar. Above them, a small flat screen plays the news. A picture of Dave's face - a school picture from ninth grade - is beside that of Bull. They're about the same age, though the former looks sad, scared, angry, and the latter grins brilliantly. Underneath their pictures, the headline reads: TEENAGER FOUND DEAD IN HOUSTON ALLEY, SUSPECT AT LARGE. It's only then that Dave remembers the reading Rose had given him at the beginning of the summer, the calculating eyes of Justice looking straight through him.

      "Remember when I said you really needed to meet my family?" Karkat asks, turning to Dave. He nods. "I don't think I've ever mentioned it, but my dad's a lawyer. I think it's time you meet him." 

      The first thing Dave sees when he walks into the house Karkat grew up in is a bloody, half-naked Jesus Christ nailed to the cross. What little space isn't taken up by the massive crucifixion is thoughtfully decorated with more humble crosses and nicely-painted psalms. Dave's gaze drops to the table beneath it with statue angels and a picture of a young Karkat dressed as a saint in what he can only assume is a church play. He turns to Karkat, who smirks ever so slightly in amusement, and waves him into the living room. 

      "Ah, Dave! It's so lovely to meet you!" Karkat's dad springs up from the couch with a wide grin to offer his hand. His black hair is slicked back with hair gel, and he wears a dress shirt with a pair of sweatpants. As they shake hands, he notices Dave's stare and says, "My apologies for the odd attire, I just came back from church. You know how you get home and you just _really_ want to take your pants off, but have somewhere to be later?" He laughs jovially. From the kitchen, a woman emerges with a dazzling grin.

      "Hello! It is indeed a pleasure to finally meet you, we've heard _so_ much about you! All good things," she titters. Dave sits in the lazy boy chair that he realizes too late is probably Dad's Chair, but Mr. Vantas doesn't say anything. He looks around the living room in a daze, at all the family photos, and Christian paraphernalia. To his horror, Karkat disappears into the kitchen to talk with his mom, leaving him alone with this strange man who will undoubtedly despise his son's very un-Christian "friend." 

      The first thing Mr. Vantas says to him is, "Do you go to church, young man?" 

      "Uhh... no. Sorry." He laughs again, resting a prim hand on his chest.

      "Sorry? What on earth are you _sorry_ for? Karkat doesn't go to church, either, hasn't since he was a young teen. Although, I did volunteer quite a bit, and sometimes I would force him to come to events and charities, but just to give me a hand. Do you think that was wrong of me?" He folds his eyebrows slightly, seeming to genuinely be asking for Dave's opinion. He shrugs awkwardly.

      "Not... really? He was just helping with the tables and tickets and money and whatever, right? It's not like you were forcing him to listen to the sermons - er, I mean, you know, forcing him into an uncomfortable situation. Or, I don't know, maybe it was. Um." He shrugs again. The man rubs at his scruffy chin, thinking on the response.

      "That wasn't my intention, at least. I think people often asked him why he didn't go to any sermons, and tried to convince him, but he was always good at holding his own. He would just tell them that he doesn't believe in God, and that that's okay because if God does exist, He loves him anyways. For an atheist, he's always understood God more than anyone I've ever met." He smiles fondly.

      When Karkat comes out of the kitchen with a glass of milk and a napkin of homemade cookies, his dad throws his arms around him. After handing Dave a few cookies of his own, Karkat's mother sits on the opposite side, and they both smother him with kisses. Karkat rolls his eyes in an attempt to look exasperated, but he can't completely hold back his smile. He looks like a pleased child, stuffing his face with cookies, his parents lovingly doting on him. Dave is surprised to find a surge of jealousy. 

      His mom smooths his hair out of the way, fussing over the stitches on his temple. "What on earth happened to you?" Karkat sighs in genuine annoyance, shaking himself loose of them.

      "I'll tell you everything later. I just want to chill out for a bit." 

      "I assume the same incident that scarred you also split Dave's lip?" His dad sits back on the couch, ankle propped up on his knee, fingers touching his chin. His lawyer stance. He's not going to let it go. Karkat sighs, batting at his mother's hand that sneaks towards his hair.

      "There were some guys on Lot that had it out for Dave so they started a huge brawl. I wasn't really involved, I just got caught in the cross-hairs." His mother hums in sympathy, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and kissing his temple. For all his supposed complaining, Karkat leans into her touch, still munching on his pastry.

      "What did they have against you?" Mr. Vantas asks, and Karkat doesn't answer for him, unfortunately.

      "Uh, they thought that I told the cops they had drugs. Some of their friends were arrested and they thought I was the one that ratted. I mean, I guess. I can only assume, that's what everyone else thought, but he didn't really like, say anything before he just-" Dave swings an imaginary pipe through the air.

      "Why would they think it was you?" Mr. Vantas rubs his chin again, twisting to the side to look at him more closely. Dave stammers.

      "It was just, a lot of bullshit. I lived with this guy, and then he did some shit - sorry - to my ex girlfriend, so I beat the shit out of - damn, sorry, shit, I mean, god-" He bites his knuckle, and all three of them burst into laughter. 

      "Yes, yes, goddamn and shit and hell and motherfucker." This comes from Mrs. Vantas, the harsh words spilling easily from the quaint woman's painted lips. "We know them all, darling, feel free to express yourself however you like."

      "I appreciate the humility, though," Mr. Vantas winks at him. "So you lived with this man, he hurt your ex, and you beat him up. So he, what, used his friend's arrest as an excuse to get back at you?" 

      "Pretty much, yeah." Dave glances at Karkat, who smiles at him reassuringly. His dad hums thoughtfully, looking at the TV. In the momentary silence, Dave takes a bite of the double chocolate chocolate chip cookie. Sweetness throbs in the corners of his mouth.

      "Well, who won?" Mrs. Vantas asks, and Dave snorts.

      "Nobody won. The cops came and started arresting people. Shit, they put _me_ in cuffs, but I saw this crazy buff chick looming over Karkat, so I just... I don't know, I just fuckin' lost it." He shakes his head, his eyes glazing over at the memory. It still boils his blood and curdles in his stomach, that Karkat got hurt. Because of him.

      "Ah, so you went to jail?" 

      "Oh, nah, my brother helped us get out of there. Had to cut the cuffs off," he laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.

      "Resisting arrest is a crime, you know." Dave nods without replying. 

      "Don't lecture the boy, I'm sure it's not the first time he's run from the police, am I right?" Mr. Vantas asks.

      "He's already got warrants out for him. Just add it to the fucking list." Dave shoots Karkat a mild glare, but his parents only laughs again. They do that a lot. Dave can't tell if it's annoying or endearing.

      "We figured you were a hooligan. Strange how our son always has a soft spot for delinquents when he himself is very... cautious." She giggles at Karkat's offended scoff.

      "I'm not a goody two shoes, I smoked weed way before me and Dave were even friends!" 

      "Yeah, _once..."_ They laugh as Karkat crosses his arms, pretending to be angrier than he really is. 

      "When I was your age, I smoked every single day," she muses. "We both did, didn't we, sweetie?" Mr. Vantas nods.

      "For real?" 

      "Oh, yeah. We were some of the _real_ hippies, not whatever's left of you guys now," she continues. "We met at a Grateful Dead concert when we were in college, actually. No offense, but you kids never got the chance to see the scene in its hay-day. It's really not the same anymore. Dropping acid is how I found God in the first place." His dad nods again in agreement. "It's always been a very spiritual experience, a way to get closer to God." They smile at each other pleasantly.

      Dave leans forward in awe; Karkat's parents are some of the most interesting people he thinks he has ever met. "I almost got into selling acid, but then I accidentally knocked up the beautiful woman I accidentally fell in love with," Mr. Vantas says. "That's when I decided to settle down and start back on my career as a lawyer. I dropped out to hitchhike and go to concerts, but when I was given a beautiful life to cherish, I had to do my best to give him a stable, healthy life. I might still be on the road dealing drugs if it weren't for him. I didn't think it was possible to love another human being so much, when he was screaming and covered in blood, before his eyes had even opened." He regards Karkat fondly again, tearing up. 

      Mrs. Vantas squeezes her husband's shoulder. "Our little miracle baby..." Karkat rolls his eyes. 

      Dave is astonished at this admittance, and hewonders how it would go down if he told him that he deals. To test the waters, he asks, "When was the last time y'all got spun?" 

      "Only a few years ago, we did it together on our anniversary. It's too taxing to do it weekly like we used to, but every now and then, it's very refreshing."

      "What? I didn't know you guys still did acid." He smiles at his son wryly.

      "Oh, Karkat. There's still much about us that you don't know. Do you sell, Dave?" Dave lifts his eyebrows in surprise. He isn't sure if it's a trap. "I mean, I assume you were selling something, anyways. Karkat isn't always the greatest liar, and he was cagey about how you made your money. It's okay, I won't tell." 

      "Yeah, um... acid, actually. I'd offer to drop some with you but I left everything at my brother's. I'm taking a break for a while."

      "What for?" He shrugs like there was no particular reason, fondly watching Karkat take a large gulp of his milk. "Well, I hear you're in legal trouble. Drug-related, I assume?" Dave shifts uncomfortably.

      "No, actually... it's, uh... murder-related." Mr. Vantas stares at him, unblinking.

      "He didn't do it," Karkat asserts quickly. "But it's already destroying his life-"

      "Well, that's a little over the top-"

      "No, it's not. Our boss doesn't want him working at the restaurant until his face gets off the news. Kanaya is afraid to bring anyone over to the apartment because everyone _actually_ thinks he did it, and I can tell she wants to move out. It was right in the neighborhood where his brother lives, so he's being investigated-"

      Mrs. Vantas interrupts, "If he didn't do it, then what's the problem? He simply needs to turn himself in, testify-"

      "He has a record. A complicated one. Several cases of battery, resisting arrest. Across state lines. Plus, he'd have to confess to all of the dealing shit when he testified." His dad nods, leaning back as he thinks.

      "What's your motive?" Dave squirms under the scrutinize eyes of his audience. 

      "I mean, he was just a kid, he never did anything wrong, I never had beef with him. But he was, like, working for the other guy selling L on Lot, you know? And... they have the murder weapon. It has my fingerprints on it. Because I used it to beat the shit out of someone. Not the kid! I lost sight of him once the fight started, I didn't ever even talk to him, but a _lot_ of people saw me with it."

      "Do you have an alibi?"

      "He was with me, his brother, and his dad the night it happened-"

      "Well, you and I left early-" 

      "That doesn't matter-"

      "It does if you two were alone, without anyone else around for several hours. They could try to paint you as an accomplice." He hums, rubbing his chin.

      Mrs. Vantas looks at Dave with that expression he hates, full of sympathy and pity. "Sweetie, they probably know you're innocent. They're trying to scare you out of hiding, to force you to confess to your other charges. It'll all work out, I'm sure." Dave's flicker of anger towards her diminishes. 

      "But we think we know who actually did it." Karkat looks his father in the eye. He leans forward again, his lawyer face on and ready to listen.

      "Tell me everything." 

      After their long conversation about legal consequences, after a game plan had been formed, the boys agree to stay the night in Karkat's old bedroom. It's long been turned into a guest room, but still yields some mementos from Karkat's childhood. A tall shelf sits in the corner, spilling over with books featuring shirtless men and distressed women. An entire shelf is dedicated to movies, and Dave is unsurprised to see that they're all rom-coms. Karkat sits on the floor, running his fingers along the spines, prancing through his memories. Dave sits beside him, leaning against the bed.

      "I think we need to talk," Karkat says. He turns to face him, but averts his eyes, frowning deeply. Dave watches him expectantly. He knows what his boyfriend is going to say, and he doesn't blame him. He isn't angry, or bitter, or defensive; he's only sad, already grieving. "No matter what, you're going to jail. Whether it ends up being for a year or ten years... I- I just... I don't... I don't know that I- or _we-_ that it's-" He squeezes his eyes closed, sighing heavily. Dave grabs one of his hands and shakes it of its fist.

      "It's okay. I'm not going to ask you to stay with me. I'm not going to ask you to never look in anyone else's direction while you can only look at me from across a table. I'm not going to do that to you. I'm not mad, I understand, I promise." Karkat opens his eyes, looking down at their hands. 

      "But I _want_ to. I don't want to be with anyone else, and I'm fine with being single. I don't mind being somewhere in between with you." He finally [looks](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qa7x43Yotac) up, and the sight of the hurt and vulnerability in his eyes causes Dave to look away. He scoots closer, grabbing Karkat's other hand. 

      "Listen, Karkat... I'm not right in the head-"

      "Don't say that-"

      "Just listen, please? I'm not saying that to be self-deprecating or to play the victim card or anything. I'm laying out the situation, nothing held back, so that we're both on the same page. Alright?" Karkat reluctantly nods. "I'm a little off, don't pretend you don't know that. I have anger issues, I have trust issues, I have a lot of anxiety and probably some kind of undiagnosed personality disorder or something. I'm a human project, who needs a lot of work. Prison isn't going to make me better, it's actually going to make me a whole lot worse. That's not fair to you."

      "But I don't mind that you need work, I _want t_ o help you. And knowing that there's someone looking out for you, loving you and cheering you on will make it easier for you-"

      "And that much harder for _you._ That's exactly why I don't want to be with you, Karkat. Not like this, and _this_ is all that's left. Love isn't the only important thing in a relationship." Karkat's eyes grow moist, and he clutches at Dave's hand as if he'll run away if he loosens his grip. Dave realizes that there isn't much time for them. Being with Karkat is the strangest, most beautiful thing he's ever experienced, and it's suddenly very important that he knows that. He doesn't care about being uncomfortable, about looking weak, about Karkat not feeling the same way. They'd never said the L-word, but the way they had both just acknowledged it as if it was a fact... Karkat is the only person in the whole world who has ever truly loved Dave. It's stupid, to hold any of that back when there's an expiration date looming above them.

      "Karkat Vantas, I love you. You are the only truly kind person I've ever met. Even though I was nothing but a jerk to you, you helped me, and you continue to help me every day. You bought me clothes, you got me a job. You taught me how to make a grilled cheese sandwich, for Christ's sake. And it's not just me - it's fucking everyone. I see the way you get all worked up when someone is upset, and you try your damndest to make them feel better, simply because you can't stand seeing someone struggle. You're a teacher, a lover, a fighter, all in one. You understand things, the world, the human soul - the things that matter. You're not petty or vindictive or shallow, and you care, passionately and openly about..." He grins as he thinks of all the things that get Karkat emotional. "Two fictional characters having a dreamy kiss, every pair of socks Kanaya knits you. The stars, every time you look up at them, even though they always look exactly the same. Genuinely, you want the best for people, and you don't want anything in return. You make me want to be a better person. You make me believe that I can be." He lets out a breathless laugh and whispers, "You're an amazing human being." 

      "And people don't even _think_ about other people, let alone actually care about them, you know? Except in the context of like, 'How can they benefit me? What do they think about me? How do I compare to them?' They see everyone they meet through their own lenses. Everyone lives in their own little bubbles. To be a hypocrite, it makes me feel invisible. No one will just look me in the eye and _see_ me," he looks over, and Karkat is looking at him with clear eyes. Eyes full of patience and understanding. "Yeah, just like that. You're the only person that makes me feel..." seen, is what he was going to say. But it's so much more than just that. How can he ever use the limited expression of language to describe an experience that transcends mere emotion? He squeezes Karkat's hands.

      "Look, our lives are going separate ways. I won't forget about you, I promise. You've made a life-changing impression just by being you. You've changed my life, you've changed _me._ For the better. But I want you to live your life for _you_. Finish school, become the best goddamn social worker the world has ever seen. You'll be great. You'll be _so_ great, dude, I have literally absolutely no doubt that you will continue to change lives. And you deserve someone better than me, anyways. Someone who knows how to do basic tasks, who can get more than a dead end, minimum-wage job, who is emotionally stable and available. Who can take care of you as much as you take care of them-"

      "But it's not about worth, or who deserves what. _I_ get to decide that. And you don't have anyone," Karkat interrupts. He already looks defeated. 

      "It's easier that way for me, too. You may not care about getting someone you deserve, but I do. Once it's all said and done, you have to move on. I'll be fine, I know how to take care of myself. There are better things out there for you. You can still visit me and write, but I don't want to be an obligation. There are other things more worthy of your time and energy. I'm breaking it off because it's for the best. Okay?" Dave reaches out to cradle Karkat's face in his hands, to look him steadily in the eye. 

      Karkat knows he's right. If he stayed with Dave, he'd neglect everything else to worry about him, to make him his top priority. Their relationship would be a strain on him, distracting him from his studies, from work. From his life. If they sever the attachment, the commitment, the obligation, Karkat can get over the heartbreak now and begin to heal. Maybe he could help Dave more that way, too. Visit every now and then, call him on holidays. It's for the best. He throws himself into Dave's arms, burying his face in his neck. "I love you, too," he whispers as he clings to him, holding on for as long as he possibly can. 

 

      It's warm and dry. Dragonfly sighs contentedly up at the trees, relieving her bladder in the brush beside the camper. She never thought she'd find it so much better to poop in a hole, but she dreads going back to civilization and using a toilet. Crouched, relaxed, your bare asshole exposed to the worms - that's exactly how it's supposed to be. When she's finished, she sits on the flimsy front steps of her dilapidated home and rubs coconut oil on her elbows, her knees, her lips. Her spoiled Florida skin, used to upwards of 90% humidity, is shriveling in the dry air. 

      Upon smelling the sweet butter, Kankri's dog comes bounding up to lick it off of her. Her nipples are enlarged, nearly dragging on the ground because she herself isn't yet fully grown. Even so, trailing behind her is a horde of stumbling puppies, still not used to life outside the womb. They growl and nip at each other, tripping as they leap into Dragonfly's lap. She hugs each of them to her, grinning into their gritty fur. They're half-coyote, energetic, wild, and destined to be massive. To avoid them licking off her small amount of lotion, she stands, grabbing the puppy that she adopted. She's named her Honeytongue, because she's the golden brown of honey, and because her tongue doesn't know how to stay inside her mouth.

      The two of them stumble off the front steps of the crooked camper, deeper into the woods. Honeytongue wiggles in her arms, but Dragonfly waits until they lose her mother and her siblings to put her on the ground. The puppy nips at her heels as she tramples through the thin brush, towards the sound of voices. A small house, handmade from scraps of wood and metal stands lopsidedly in the middle of their modest yard. Through the propped open door, she can hear Kankri lecturing Rufioh about the organization of the bins again. 

      Rufioh pretends to listen, grinning behind the joint between his teeth. He's been smoking away his pain, getting so high that he can hardly think about anything at all. No one mentions it because pot addiction isn't serious enough of a thing to require an intervention. Though not considered severe, it does mean he makes many mistakes that drive the anal retentive Kankri insane. Honeytongue scratches at Rufioh's legs, yapping until he scoops her into his lap. He sets down his pliers and stem of dried buds to rub her belly with both hands, grinning at her tongue hanging sloppily out the side of her mouth. 

      "Maybe we should just get the blind one to label them! Since she's more capable than you are," Kankri insults as Dragonfly leans in the doorway. Immediately, he gasps, covering his mouth. _"Dragonfly_. I am _so_ sorry-"

      _"Kankri._ My darling canker sore of a friend. I have told you a thousand times, I literally don't care. Stop giving Rufioh such a hard time, it's not that big a deal! Just sell the mislabeled bin to a bunch of high schoolers, they won't know the difference. You're an illegal drug dealer, not the owner of a fancy dispensary with regulations and shit." She sits on top of one of those bins, breathing in the scent of plants. A mess of crisscrossed strings take over half the room, hanging with crispy stems adorned with fat buds, drying in the air. It reminds her of the office in Aradia and The Bee Guy's house. 

      "Yeah, man, chill." Rufioh calmly resumes his snipping, Honeytongue trying to catch the discarded leaves. She eventually whines for her mom, and Dragonfly takes her back to the camper. The little mutt's family still waddles around the empty fire pit in anticipation of a few morsels of breakfast.

      While they all eat breakfast, Dragonfly listens to  _Skull and Roses_ \- or  _Skull Fuck,_ if you want to get technical -, a Grateful Dead album that she feels a deep connection with. Her favorite song,  _[Wharf Rat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l_pH-RWHLyo),_ plays, and she sings along. _"But I'll get back on my feet someday, the good Lord willin', if He says I may. I know that the life I'm livin's no good, I'll get a new start, live the life I should. I'll get up and fly away."_ Then she whispers, "I'm working on it." Next time she's on tour, she thinks she'll start talking to the Wharf Rats. It's just like AA, but instead of God - cause the maker's no friend of hers - it's Jerry Garcia. Those people would understand better than anyone in a regular rehab, anyways. She wonders if they have actual meetings, or if it's a more informal group of ex-drug addicts that simply support each other through presence and shared pain.

      Then she does her daily chores; watering the plants, planting new ones, organizing the shed. They're slow, menial, solitary tasks, and sometimes she still finds herself itching to do something _more._ To crank up the music, to go harder than just smoking and drinking. At the very least, go to a restaurant where the food is placed in front of her and all she has to do is eat. Campfire food only tastes good the first week, and is only fun to make for a few meals rather than every single one. At least they take up some of the endless amount of time she has. The seemingly infinite amount of time her life contained used to cause distress, but she's trying to do good things with it.

      Last Thursday was the first time she had left the mountain in several weeks, since her new employment. There was a Rainbow Gathering a little north in one of the many national forests sprinkled around the state. So the the three of them went on vacation, tucked into Rufioh's truck, armed with camping gear. They followed the coordinates that had been posted on Facebook, despite Rufioh and Dragonfly explaining to Kankri that it wasn't the "Real Gathering." He was somehow convinced that _they_ were the pretentious ones, even though they had friends who were actual members of the Rainbow Tribe. Friends who could give them the actual coordinates, but Kankri was the one driving. On his own insistence. He liked to lord over them that he was their boss. 

      When they arrived, it became immediately apparent that the expected festival-like gathering was not at the aforementioned coordinates. Still, they let Kankri look around so he could figure it out for himself. There were a few campers scattered about, only one stand that didn't advertise anything in particular. A few people collected under it, squinting their eyes at the trio as they passed. Plain copy paper was taped to trees, welcoming them to the Gathering, and there was one group playing loud music around a fire pit. They spread out around the fire, but were ignored, until a man recognized Dragonfly. The mat of hair at the end of his bright red dreadlocks dragged in the dirt behind him as he sat next to her. He nudged her, gave her a beer, and told her she was in the wrong place. She said that she knew that, and asked him to tell her friend. He explained to Kankri that they set up a fake Gathering for the authorities to find and shut down, leaving alone the real Tribe. 

      Kankri begrudgingly agreed to leave, and they ended up two hours away on the other side of the forest. This time, when they followed the large, bright yellow and red arrows nailed to trees, they knew they had made it. Upon exiting the vehicle, women pranced over to them, arms held wide. When they all embraced, they chanted, "Welcome home, brothers, sister! Welcome home!" There were many stands, selling beer and openly advertising their illicit merchandise. There was the first aid tent, where only one man was being attended to, slurring his words around and laughing as a woman with a cigarette between her lips dabbed at a bloody cut on his forehead. Beside it was the sober stand, for people having bad trips, or whose friends were afraid they had overdosed. The trading post, for when someone ran out of weed but had a spare salted rabbit. 

      Children ran around, and when they crossed the bumpy dirt road running through the center of the Gathering, the words, "Cars are real!" trailed after them. Everyone they passed hugged them and called them brother and sister. Rufioh took to it easily, instantly becoming the one initiating the hugs, even entering other camps to embrace fellow strangers. He himself is an off-and-on Rainbow Tribe member. The trip had made him consider traveling with them again, all over the country this time rather than just in the south. It gave him something to think about, something to look forward to. Even Kankri was at ease with mostly ignored. He was immediately pegged as an outsider, and became invisible to conversations that went beyond 'hey, brother, welcome home.' Despite the stink, he preferred to hang around the campsites closest to the communal Hole, the big patch of grass and dirt where toilet paper grew from the tree branches. He used it to orient himself in the unfamiliar woods. The best way to make friends at a Rainbow Gathering, of course, was to talk, and say whatever came to mind, something that Kankri was very good at. So he did make a few friends, at least.

      Dragonfly always went to the Ocala Gatherings when they came around, but it had never interested her very much. They're a group of people vehemently against modern society, who despise that one must pay for housing and have a job and be an upstanding citizen. But because it's illegal to not live in a home, instead of being able to set up a commune in the woods, they are forced to travel. Of course, this means they have to have cars, which means they have to pay for gas, which means they have to sell things, hence the drugs. Most of them try to be self-sustained, killing and gathering their own food as much as possible, but it's a difficult life. Aradia loved the idea, she always dreamed of traveling with them full-time. Dragonfly can easily see her greeting the newcomers with open arms, welcoming them home.

      They didn't used to interest her, but this one did. It was the first bit of excitement she had felt since their failed journey across the country in their Uhaul. It was nice, homely, deep in the moist, chilly woods of northern Oregon. Where you can approach anyone and talk about anything, do whatever you want without anyone questioning it. She finds a random group of people standing around a grill smoking with birds and chipmunks. They didn't bat an eye when she jumped into their conversations, and they gave her a plate with charred meat, and a beer to guzzle it down. It was like entering a whole new world. 

      It made her realize that there are things out there she doesn't know about, that what's right in front of her _isn't_ all that there is. There's a whole entire _world_ that she's never smelled or tasted or felt. As she talks with these brothers and sisters, she realizes what she wants to do with her life.

      Ultimately, however, she likes it on the farm, especially now that she has a plan for the future to think about. Something Rufioh's uncle said - something about listening to her soul - really stuck with her, and she finds it easier than she thought. Easier than trying to smother it, anyways. It's as if she's been walking against the wind, braced and leaning forward in anticipation of being shoved to the ground. Now, she tries to go _with_ the grain of existence, and has found it infinitely easier to breathe. It's like she's opened her eyes for the first time, like waking up from a long dream. 

      It was difficult at first, but at that point she was a pro at withdrawal. Kankri and Rufioh didn't bother her except to bring her dinner and make sure she was alive. It made it easier, being able to suffer and be as miserable as she possibly could without another pair of eyes bearing witness. It was also easier because she wasn't fighting it for someone else; for the first time, she was doing it for herself. It was something she _wanted_ to do, not something she had to. Every day, she was able to do a little more, until she was helping them with anything that she could, if just to stay busy. The boredom is the worst part. With nothing to entertain her, she's been left with the remnants of her broken mind. Picking up the pieces was proving to be an extremely challenging task. But, still - easier than it used to be. That's all she can really ask for, she thinks.

      It's still hard, but she's been invigorated with a new kind of motivation, and dreams of traveling the world, of building an intimate relationship with the reality that she's been so vehemently rejecting. Being released from any sort of spirituality had grounded her. Life is about what happens now, right here, to her, and to those she cares about. That's all that matters. What she does in the present moment, and making it as worthy of life as possible.

      The Bee Guy was with her through her struggles, even from the other side of the country. She would walk a mile down the mountain for a few bars of patchy reception, and listen to him complain about his job, and she would complain about Kankri. Those calls usually end with one of them crying, so she doesn't call very often. Crying is a hard thing to do, she's come to realize. Once she gets going, it's hard to stop. Years and years of repression and heartache bubble up at unexpected moments and she finds herself having to take a moment. Excuse herself from a casual chat with the boys, step out of the greenhouse to take a few gulps from the hose to calm down. She's grateful that her coworkers pretend not to notice.

      The well of pain is deep; it will take a long time to get to the bottom of it, to seal it. Maybe she'll never get there, and it will always be filled with something. The same things that she can't dig out of her, or new things to ache for. She's realized it's impossible to not hurt in one way or another. She's trying to be okay with it. 

      She hasn't called Latula since she was in New York. On multiple occasions, she's made the trek down the mountain, her sister's name lingering on her tongue, before deciding it's too much. It's too much to face her disappointment, her anger. There's too much of that coming from Dragonfly herself, and sometimes even Bee. It might smother the delicate structure of self-control she's been able to build herself, blow it down like a house of cards. She needs to sort herself out first. But, she thinks maybe... maybe it would be easier to sort herself out if she had Latula there with her. Maybe they could talk it out. Family is important, she's realized; they're obligated to love you unconditionally. 

      The indecision loops through her mind over and over, occupying her thoughts. Another thing she's learned is that when she gets stuck on something like this, it means she has to do it or she'll never let it go. She realized this on the first night in Oregon, almost a week and a half into sobriety. Her bladder was full, but she was so tired and it was so exhausting to find a place to squat, and to make sure she threw the toilet paper in the fire pit and not to the side of it and it gets cold at night here, even in the summer. But she couldn't fall back asleep, her body screaming at her to help it, and she realized that she would never sleep again until she went to the bathroom. This lesson can be applied to a lot of things. 

      So she tries to call her sister again. It's a slow day. Most days are slow. And it's nice; clear, sunny sky, warm and windy. There's supposed to be a meteor shower tonight. As she takes her walk down the mountain, she thinks of that, and the hot chocolate in a box beside her bed, and she tells Honeytongue all about how lucky she is to be a dog and not a human - she does anything to keep from thinking about the call waiting ahead of her. She finds her rock on the side of the craggy dirt road, on a little bump in the ground. And she sits, holding her phone in her hand. Listening to the whine of bugs, to Honeytongue sniffing at the weeds. Before she can convince herself otherwise, she dials her sister, and holds her breath.

      "Hello?"

      "Hey, it's me."

      "Hi, there. Haven't heard from you in a while." Dragonfly is instantly suspicious of her calm voice and rational demeanor.

      "Um, yeah. Sorry. I've had a lot going on..." She trails off, and Latula doesn't say anything. "Are you mad?"

      "What would I be mad about, Dragonfly? You're just doing what you've always done. I know what to expect from you. I just wish you would have told me."

      "Told you what?"

      "About Aradia. About going on tour. About your fight with The Bee Guy. About anything at all. I knew her too, you know, since all you guys were kids," now she sounds angry. An instant defensive retort almost bursts from Dragonfly's mouth, but she bites her tongue. It's not really anger, anyways, it's hurt, and she's entitled to it.

      "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking right. I haven't been thinking right for a long time. I'm sorry. And I know that doesn't mean anything when I don't _do_ anything, but I'm really trying this time, I am. I'm really trying." 

      "I know you are. You were trying the first time you went to rehab, too. Progress isn't a straight line, it's a two steps forward one step back kind of thing, but it's still progress." They lapse into an awkward silence. Without Latula taking charge of the conversation with pressing questions and nagging and lectures, Dragonfly isn't quite sure how to talk to her. It almost sounds like Latula doesn't know how to talk to her either.

      "So... how did you hear about all that stuff?"

      "I talk to Bee. He invited me to the funeral, actually, but I didn't go because... I didn't need to, and I didn't want to make things harder on you. I just wish you would talk to me." Dragonfly picks at a fuzzball in the hole in her jeans. She wonders how long they've all been talking about her behind her back. It makes her feel guilty, and it also makes her feel something warm and nice. 

      "Sorry," she whispers. Hot tears burn her eyes, and for once, she lets herself be heard. Latula's quiet except for the occasional reassurance that it's going to be okay, that she's not mad. "I'm so sorry. I'm a _horrible_ human being. I've been using again," she sobs. "Not for a few weeks now. I'm doing good. For real this time. I don't want to use anymore, I don't want to throw my life away. I want to live. I just don't know how. I don't know how to be alive." 

      "It's okay, I'll help you. Like, actually _help_ you, instead of just telling you what to do." Dragonfly sniffles and sucks in the rest of her tears. Ever since she broke the lid on her well, she's been leaking constantly, and is too tired to stop it. "You know, I've been reading some [books](https://www.amazon.com/Realm-Hungry-Ghosts-Encounters-Addiction/dp/155643880X) about addiction-"

      "Oh, dear god, not a [book](https://www.amazon.com/Chasing-Scream-Opposite-Addiction-Connection/dp/1620408910/ref=cm_cr_arp_d_pdt_img_sims?ie=UTF8)..." Latula chuckles.

      "I know I can't ever truly empathize with why you do these things to yourself or what you're going through... but I'm _really_ trying to understand. I've been treating you harshly and judging you and I was angry because I didn't understand, I couldn't. I should have been meeting you where you were, holding you and listening to you and being sympathetic. Honestly, I don't know how to do this, I don't know how to help you."

      "I don't either."  

      "Could we maybe... figure it out together?"

      "Honestly, I don't think that you can. I think it's pretty much up to me. I've been staying at this place, and... it's helped, just because I've been able to get away from people. The people that are bad for me, but also from the people that care. I need time and space to just be me for once. I need to figure out who I am and it's hard for me to do that with other people around, you know? They have this version of me in their heads and it's hard to not live up to that, and to have them questioning me and watching me change." Latula hums in acknowledgement. "Can I tell you something?"

      "Of course, anything."

      "It's probably nothing, I'm probably just being paranoid. But, I feel like... I don't know, I feel like something happened to me, when I was a kid, something bad. And I think maybe that's why I have problems with sex? That's what I've heard, anyways, that people that were molested or whatever as kids usually have problems with sex. I guess I'm just looking for an excuse, but there's no excuse for it, I'm just messed up. It's probably nothing, forget I said anything." There's silence on the other end for a long moment. "Hello? Did I lose you?" There's the sound of shuffling, a door opening and closing. 

      After another moment of silence, Latula's voice is quieter and softer, as if the words she's about to say are too harsh on their own. "Do you remember our dad's friend that he played poker with on the weekends?" A knot forms in the pit of Dragonfly's stomach, like she already knows what her sister's going to say. She feels the impulse to change the subject, to turn away from Latula's gentle voice. She swallows down the nausea. 

      "No? What's he got to do with anything?" 

      "He was a family friend. Dad knew him in high school, they were best friends. Remember how we had to have a babysitter for a while, because mom and dad both worked a lot?" She doesn't, but she remembers hearing about it. No one ever talked about it much, just off-handedly, like it was nothing important. They decided to change their schedules so that the whole family could spend more time together. "Well... he was the one that babysat us, for a couple of years. You probably wouldn't remember anyways, you were still a toddler. That's good, I wish I didn't remember it." She pauses, taking a deep breath. "There's no easy way to say it, so... he, um, he molested you, Dragonfly. I'm sorry. He did the same exact things to me, so I _promise,_ you can talk to me about absolutely anything. If any memories pop up, or if you have dreams about it. I went through the same things, I get it. There's absolutely nothing to be ashamed about." 

      Dragonfly rests her forehead on her knees, breathing evenly. "Is that why I'm fucked up?" She whispers.

 _"No._ You are not fucked up, don't ever think that. _He_ was fucked up, the Joker's fucked up. You are a person who feels things so intensely, and you've been dealing with a lot of pain from a lot of different places. There's so much fucked up shit that goes on in the world, it'd be fucked up of you not to feel a little fucked up sometimes." Her voice is wobbly, and she sniffs. Dragonfly lets out a shaky giggle.

      "I don't think I've ever heard you say fuck before." Latula laughs, and they both find themselves with tears in their eyes, laughing despite the hurt deep in their chests. They fall quiet in a series of endless sniffles. 

      "I love you, Dragonfly. Do you know that?" Dragonfly takes the question seriously. 

      All the times she's shunned her sister when she tried to help. She let her stay in her home, she's been with her through everything. Even when she kicked her out, she had immediately welcomed her back. Without any prompting, she's been reading books to try to understand her. Even from just the tone in her voice, she sounds like she really, truly and genuinely wants the _best_ for Dragonfly. For no other reason than because she loves her, for simply being _her._ She sees all of the things that Dragonfly hates about herself, and she's still here. 

      "Yeah, I know. I love you, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this fic probably makes it seem like I'm bitter and hateful and judgmental towards all of this GD stuff, but I'm really not. It was a very interesting and beautiful environment to grow up in, I learned a lot from it, and it's really shaped me into the person I am. In a lot of good ways, I think. It wasn't until some bad people came into my life that I saw the dark side of it, and that's why I wanted to write this story in the first place - to make sense of it all. The good stuff already makes sense, it's the bad stuff that's hard to understand. Maybe I should have shown more of the good...  
> The epilogue is already written, so I might be able to finish this thing before the year ends!!


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